


Home Sweet Holmes

by Ttime42



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Study in Pink Spoilers, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bullying, Corporal Punishment, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, Horses, Kid Fic, Kid Jim, Kid John, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, Kidlock, Not a casefic, Original Character(s), Orphans, Pre-Series, School, Sherlock's Violin, Sherlock's parents - Freeform, Swearing, adolescent homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:46:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ttime42/pseuds/Ttime42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is a poor orphan. Sherlock Holmes is the son of wealthy parents. When John and Sherlock meet, both their lives are changed forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The year is 1991. Sherlock is 12. John is 14. Also, the orphanage in this fic and the way it is structured are completely made up by me and not meant to represent how an orphanage would actually operate. Enjoy!

John Watson was an orphan. It was okay, though. A lot of kids were orphans, and not so many of them had it as well as John did. John lived with the other orphans in a communal home (not an orphanage, thanks) that housed children ages five to eighteen. He made friends easily and got along with the other kids. He knew how to throw a punch and stand his ground, which helped too. No one stayed very long at the home though, at least not kids his age. Everyone helped out with chores and small tasks around the house. Everyone had basic schooling taught by either the counselors or real teachers that volunteered. The younger kids were more or less limited to the house, but teenagers were able to go out into 'real world' as John's counselor called it, and work. They could make some money, they could get job experience, and if they were very, very lucky, they would go to real school and possibly get adopted.

"John," Steve, John's counselor, opened his office door and invited him inside. It was a shabby office on the first floor, all dark walls and tired floor. Steve tried to spruce it up by adding paintings and posters depicting kittens hanging from branches with little sayings like 'hang in there!' that were supposed to inspirational. John sat on the metal folding chair in front of Steve's desk. "There's an opening for a job in that I think you might be suited for."

"Oh really?" John perked up. His last job had been in the heart of London washing dishes at a Korean restaurant under the supervision of the overbearing, loud owner who liked to screech Korean obscenities at him, slap at his hands with a flyswatter and make him rewash perfectly sparkling dishes. The thought of a different job was more than appealing.

"It would be," Steve's fingers flew over his big grey boxy computer's keyboard as he spoke, "working for a family up in Essex. You would be working specifically under their horse master."

"Horses?" John said, pained. "I don't really know anything about horses."

"I know, but," Steve pushed up his glasses, "you're a quick learner. You've flown through the home curriculum and read every school text book laying around this place, and I think your temperament is suited to working with animals."

John was quite. Steve stopped typing. "Look, I know Essex is far, but this is a good opportunity, John. They pay well."

"They?"

"The family. The Holmes'. It says here they have two sons."

"Fine." John said. "I'll give it a try, but if either of those posh brats try to mess with me, I'll drop them like rocks."

"Please don't." Steve said nonchalantly. "You get into enough fights here." He looked disapprovingly over his glasses at John, the freshest incident clear in his mind. It should be clear. Steve was the one who had stopped the fistfight and suffered an accidentally punched belly for his trouble.

"Hey, Nathan was being a jerk. He was picking on Sarah." John groused.

"No fighting." Steve said. "If you take this job, someone will be here tomorrow to pick you up."

"Tomorrow? How long will I be gone?"

"They want someone for a whole term. You'd be on probation for a few weeks, and if they keep you, you're there until your term runs out‒one year." They spoke the last two words together.

"Sure, why not?" John stood up. Nathan was getting on his nerves anyway and he wanted to get away for a while. Who knew? Maybe this job would be really good.


	2. Chapter 2

 "Oh, Sherlock‒play another one‒that Boccherini piece. You know how much I like it." Charlotte Holmes leaned back on the sofa.

"Mother, do I have to?" Sherlock said, making a sour face. "I want to go out riding now."

"Play the piece." She commanded.

With a sigh, Sherlock played the bright song, deliberately skipping the repeated sections so it would be shorter and he could leave faster.

"You missed a few parts." His father, Sherringford, walked into the room as Sherlock finished.

"Hello father." Sherlock said. "Can I go now, mother?"

"Go, go on." She waved him away and Sherlock fit his violin back in his case before darting towards the door‒

"Whoa, whoa." Sherringford Holmes caught him by the shoulder. "Where are you going?"

"Riding." He said, annoyed. Couldn't they see he wanted to get out of here?

"When will you be back?"

"Before dark." He rolled his eyes.

"What about your homework?"

Sherlock made a face. "It's summer break!"

"I know. Just testing you. Have fun."

Sherlock ran out the back door and across the field that separated the estate from the stables. He wanted to get down to the river today and collect some samples. The frogs were spawning, and if he was lucky, he'd be able to steal some eggs. He strode into the stable and ducked into the tack room, grabbing his helmet and a crop. He also pocketed a couple sample jars he kept next to the leather polish. Saved him the trouble of having to go all the way to his room to grab them anytime he wanted to ride. Sherlock heard voices and glanced up towards the opposite entrance to the stable. Alistair, the horse handler, ambled in through the doorway. He was talking to a boy roughly Sherlock's age. Blonde hair, blue eyes, shortish, he was listening intently to Alistair's low Scottish tones as he explained how the day-to-day stable operated. Sherlock glanced the newcomer over, pausing before his stallion's stall. Second, no, third hand jeans. An old patched plaid shirt. An ancient pair of trainers held together with tape. Orphan.

"Ah, Sherlock." Alistair called. "Meet John."

"Is this the orphan?" Sherlock snipped. John's jaw tightened and he stared up into Sherlock's eyes, challenging, silently daring him to say more. Sherlock stared back at him, one arched brow raised.

"My _name_ is John Watson." He growled.

"Sherlock, don't be rude." Alistair admonished gently. "John's going to be working for us."

"Good. You need help around here, Al."

" _You_ could help him out." John said. "But I suppose you're too busy riding your horse around your estate." John said it like it was something disgusting and Sherlock glared at him. John's gaze fell to the sample jar in Sherlock's hand and a curious look came over his face.

"Okay‒" Alistair put a hand on John's shoulder and moved on, "enough introductions for now. Sherlock, be careful."

"Yes, yes." Sherlock waved them off as if they were a nuisance, but then watched as they ambled out into the sunlight.

* * *

 

An hour later, John saw Sherlock storm back into the paddock on his horse, both of them covered in mud and filth and grime. A small smile twitched at his lips. Whatever had happened to him, it served the pompous brat right.

"Stupid horse!" Sherlock snapped. His stallion was snorting and pawing the earth, agitated and nervous. Sherlock leaped off his back and trudged towards the house.

John put his shovel aside (Alistair had set him to mucking stalls. Hard work, but very necessary for the estate's two horses) and headed for the paddock.

"Hey there…" John crept up to the snorting, frightened stallion. It's eyes were wide, ringed with white, and it snorted at John. "It's okay." John tiptoed forward and pulled a small red and green peppermint from his pocket. Alistair had given him a supply, stating that they were the secret to getting on any horse's good side. His eyes remained fixed on the horse. "I've got something for you if you calm down. Such a good boy…" John kept murmuring friendly nothings, glad when the animal slowly quieted. He needed a wash, something had clearly gone wrong on the ride. His body was muddy and dusty and the saddle and bridle weren't much cleaner. John unwrapped the mint and held it out to the stallion, his palm flat, unable to stop the grin when he thought of Sherlock tumbling into the mud. Soft lips mouthed it off his palm and the horse crunched on the candy, watching John with solemn black eyes.

"You're a pretty one, aren't you?" John cooed. And he was. The horse had a creamy grey-white body with pewter socks on all four legs. His muzzle and mane were the same shade of dark grey. He was big too, and strong. John knew nothing about horses, but he would guess this one was finely bred indeed.

"Finely bred like your owner, hm?" John reached out and the horse allowed him to stroke it's soft muzzle. John wasn’t entirely sure what had transpired, but based on how frightened the horse had been, maybe he'd been spooked in the woods or scared by traffic or something. That happened to horses, right?

"That's alright though. You're okay," he glanced over the animal, not seeing any blood, "and so's he. I don't even know your name."

"Galileo." A firm voice rang loudly across the paddock and John stepped away from the stallion. Sherlock strode forward, having changed out of his muddy riding clothes and into simple black trousers and a white Tshirt.

"Hello, Sherlock." John said, trying to not sound sarcastic. He worked for the Holmes' after all, was still in the probation period.

"What were you doing to my horse, orphan?"

"It's _John_ to you." He snarled. "And I was calming him. He was skittish."

Sherlock glanced over Galileo. He was much quieter now.

"Stupid animal." Sherlock sneered. "Rearing at stupid nothings in the woods. We go to the river all the time."

John paused, having no explanation for the horse's behavior. "Well, maybe he saw something you didn't."

"I don't like your attitude." Sherlock sniffed. "I should report you to my father‒he'd have you on the next train out of here."

John looked him in the eye. "It's true." He said boldly.

"What do you know, stable boy?"

"He could have seen something behind you‒they can see stuff like that, you know. They're lateral-eyed and have almost three hundred fifty degree vision." John said. Alistair had told him this fact merely 90 minutes ago, but John said it like it was knowledge any idiot should  possess.

Sherlock bristled. Who the hell was this kid to come onto _his_ property, touch _his_ horse, and then tell him off? Sherlock was always able to scare the other kids away‒boys at school refused to go near him (unless they were going to beat him up) and the last orphan Alistair had brought back lasted a mere day before pushing Sherlock down and getting sent back to whatever hovel he'd come from. John though, John was different.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and glanced John over. "You've been an orphan your whole life‒never saw your father and your mother died giving birth to you, rare these days, but it has to happen to someone. You've been in the same home in central, no, eastern London since you were a baby. No doubt you live with at least a dozen other orphans," Sherlock had a look of pure disdain on his face. "You have no pedigree or history to speak of. You work hard, judging by the dirt under your nails and the calluses on your palms, and you know how to fight, if those scrapes on your knuckles mean anything."

John stared at him, mouth open in shock.

Sherlock continued. "Alistair likes you, or he wouldn't have set you mucking or doing anything involving the horses on the first day. You want this job to work out, you like it here so far. I suggest that if you would really like to stay, you keep away from me."

There. Sherlock grinned his smuggest. That ought to scare him. It scared everyone else anyway. John continued staring at him, finally he closed his mouth and blinked.

"That was amazing. How did you do it?"

Sherlock frowned, gobsmacked. "What?"

"That…that thing you just did. Where you said everything about me‒how did you know?"

"I didn't know, I saw." Sherlock said quietly. This wasn't turning out how he thought it would. Normally, he should getting punched in the face right now. That, or watching the victim run off in fear.

"You saw?" John looked down over himself, seeing nothing but faded jeans, a shirt, and shoes. "Wow. It's like a superpower. You're Professor X, though without the wheelchair." John grinned.

Now Sherlock was really surprised. A superpower? "Who's Professor X?"

"From X-men?" John said.

Sherlock stared at him.

"The comics? He's a mutant who can read minds and know things about people?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"How have you never read X-men? What do you read? You're so posh, you must read something."

"I'm not posh." Sherlock groused.

John laughed. "Yes you are."

"I read books. Real books. Biology and science books."

"That's it?

"Well, I like Robert Louis Stevenson. A little." Sherlock conceded.

John's face lit up. " _Treasure Island_?"

Sherlock smiled.

* * *

 

A week went by and John didn't see much of Sherlock. He had plenty of work to keep occupied though, as Alistair kept him constantly in chores. There were four stalls in the heated stable‒two on each side. A tack room, a feed room, a supply closet, and a tiny office that Alistair had somehow managed to cram a desk, chair, a filing cabinet, mini refrigerator, first aid kit, and electric kettle into finished off the floorplan. John made a mental note to never play a game of Tetris with the Scot and expect to win. Feeding, mucking, polishing, sweeping, the work never ended and John would collapse on his little cot at the end of each day, exhausted but happy. He slept in the loft over the horse stalls. At first he wasn't terribly keen on this, as even at the home he had a real bed in a real room to go to every night. It was small up there but he had his privacy for the first time in his life. There was a lamp and a stacked set of wood and plastic crates that served as a place to keep clothes (not his own, they came with the loft) and the few books Alistair had lent him about horses. It was warm and once he got used to the not entirely unpleasant smell of horses and hay, it wasn't bad, really.

John was sweeping the courtyard one morning when a voice behind him spoke. "You must Alistair's new boy."

John looked up and saw an older teenager, taller than Sherlock, rounder too, wearing a suit and holding an umbrella under his arm. John glanced up at the blue, cloud free sky.

"I am." He said. "John Watson." He extended his hand, wincing at the layer of grime sweated into the lines of his palm.

"Hello, John. I'm Mycroft Holmes." Mycroft didn’t seem to mind the grime.

"Sherlock's brother." John guessed.

At this, Mycroft sighed. "Alas, yes. You've met Sherlock?"

"I did. Does he read off everyone's history like that?" John still thought it was one of the coolest things he'd ever seen.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "He did that to you. I apologize. Unfortunately, he thinks he's so clever by being nosy."

"I think it's brilliant." John said.

"Hm." Mycroft looked intrigued by that. "Do you like it here?"

"So far, yes. Alistair is kind."

"Yes he is. You mostly work with the horses?"

"Yes. Well, mostly with what goes in and out of the horses."

Mycroft gave him a thin smile. "Bellisima was ill a few weeks ago, do you know if she's better?"

John blinked, then remembered the doe-eyed Palomino he'd seen standing sleepily in the corner stall.

"Yes‒she's yours?"

Mycroft nodded.

"Alistair said she's much better. You could ride if you wanted too."

"I'm glad to hear it. Well, I must be going. I'm taking summer courses to get a head start on next year's term."

"Oh. Good luck with that." John said.

"Thank you. Pleasure to meet you, John."

He watched Mycroft walk towards the house, then noticed another, shorter, darker haired figure coming  nearer. The brothers passed on the lawn with nary a greeting and Sherlock strode up to John, looking down at him. Even though John was older by two years, Sherlock was taller, and the little shit sure seemed to enjoy lording his height around.

"I want to ride." Sherlock said.

"Hello to you too. Go ahead." John answered, continuing sweeping.

"Saddle my horse." Sherlock commanded.

John turned away. "I don't know how."

"What? Then what good are you?"

John looked up, indignation in his eyes, but he saw the vague humor on Sherlock's face, he relaxed. "I don't." He said. "Alistair has me doing stuff like this." He waved the broom.

"It's easy." Sherlock snatched the broom from John's hand and flung it aside. "I'll show you. That way you can do it whenever I tell you to." He grabbed John's wrist and towed him towards the tack room.

"Lucky me."

* * *

 

"Use your feet!" Sherlock yelled.

"I'm trying!" John yelled back.

"I've never seen anyone so hopeless at riding." Sherlock taunted.

The saddling of Galileo had been successful, with Sherlock only making John do it three times until he was satisfied it could be done properly without his supervision. Sherlock had then more or less forced John into the saddle to make him 'learn to ride I can't believe you've never ridden a horse before you deprived idiot.'

Those had been his exact words.

"Sit up straight!" Sherlock bellowed from where he was sitting on the fence post. John snapped his spine ramrod straight and the helmet slipped over his eyes. "Your stupid helmet is too big on me." John pushed it up. "Your head is fatter than mine."

"I'm smarter than you are." Sherlock answered. "My brain is larger so my helmet is bigger. It's logic."

John was astride Galileo, walking slowly across the paddock. The horse was being infinitely patient with him and John appreciated it. He was learning that any living thing dealing with Sherlock Holmes had to infinitely patient though. Sherlock was….nice certainly wasn't the word, but he'd spent most of the day with John, force-teaching him how to ride. He was rude and arrogant, yes, but the bitter snide edge that had been there the first day was gone. He no longer called him 'orphan' and every once and a while he was actually encouraging.

"Good, you're keeping your heels down."

John had walked twice more around the paddock when Alistair came into view, holding John's ignored broom.

"Johnny?" He called.

"Yes, Alistair?"

"What are you doing?"

"Uh, Sherlock taught me how to saddle his horse."

"And then did he teach you to goof off?" Alistair came up to the fence and cross his brawny, freckled arms over his chest.

"No, Alistair. Sorry." John felt a warm flush creep up his neck. He _really_ didn't want to be scolded in front of Sherlock. He quickly dismounted, pleased that he didn't fall on his arse as he landed on the grass, wobbled, then got his balance.

"Get back to work, John. There's a lot to do." Alistair strode off and John lead Galileo back to Sherlock.

"How did I do?" John asked, unbuckling the helmet.

"Hm." Sherlock thought about it. "Not wretched, I suppose."

"Cheers." He shoved the helmet at Sherlock."Can you unsaddle him? I don't want Alistair to string me up by the thumbs."

"If I must." Sherlock took the reins and jumped off the fence.

"Want to help me finish my work?" John asked hopefully.

"No way." Sherlock snipped. "I abhor being filthy."

A hurt look came over John's face.

"I mean," Sherlock said, "I have a lesson in half an hour."

"Oh." John said. "Are you taking summer courses too?"

"What? No. I don't need to take summer courses." The sudden anger in his voice was surprising. "I'm smarter than anyone at that bloody school and they can all go to hell."

John blinked. "Oh." He said quietly. "What's the lesson for then?"

"I play the violin." Sherlock said in a calmer tone. "I have a recital coming up." He made a face.

"Wow." John mumbled. He had his own horse and he played the violin? Of course he wasn't posh.

"John!" Alistair called.

"See you, Sherlock."

"Yes." He watched his friend run off and get the broom firmly handed back to him. Friend? No, John wasn't his friend. John was…an orphaned  stable boy. Nothing more. Definitely not his friend.

* * *

 

Sherlock ambled across the lawn a few days later en route to the stable. John had seemed to enjoy riding the other day. He thought. John had been smiling and trying, anyway. Sherlock tightened his grip on his black helmet. Would he…want to go again? For a real ride? Sherlock didn't know. John had chores, he knew that, and Alistair was strict when it came to getting work done. But, maybe when he was done he'd like to go out for a bit before lunch.

Sherlock ducked into the shady stable. Galileo stuck his head over the side of the stall and snorted and he patted the soft grey nose, seeing no one. No humans, anyway.

"John?" He called.

John popped out of the office, a chipped yellow mug in his hand. Sherlock glanced at the contents. Tea. With too much milk and no doubt too much sugar too.

"Oh‒sorry, Sherlock. I didn't know you were coming. I can get him ready for you." John set his tea down on an ancient three legged stool outside the office and hurried over.

"No‒I mean, that's okay." Sherlock held up a hand and stopped John. He opened his mouth. He closed his mouth. He looked at his feet, then up at John. The horse watched curiously. "Um, would you want to ride later? Maybe right before lunch, if you get your work done? You could take Bellisima. Mycroft won't care, he doesn't ride too much but if you have a lot to do or don't want to that's fine, I understand."

"Sure." John said.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Riding was fun. I'd like to learn more." He glanced over Sherlock's tight grey riding breeches and black boots. His shirt was dark blue and John had no doubt the ensemble was expensive. "As long as you don't mind my wearing this." He gestured over his worn clothes.

"No." Sherlock felt himself smile in relief. He'd said yes. "Not at all."

John finished his chores, with Alistair even telling him to take an early break (unheard of) and John brought the Palomino out into the yard to saddle her (he gave her a peppermint too, just to be safe). Sherlock had been galloping around the field behind the barn and he came trotting back when he saw John was ready, thrilled that he was still interested in spending time with him.

"Are your heels down?" Sherlock asked once they'd set off.

"Any further down and my feet would be dragging in the mud."

"Good. Your posture looks good too. I see you're finally listening to me."

They were plodding through the woods en route to the river. The day was warm and the sky clear and it was an excellent day for being outside.

"This isn't too bad." John said, having relaxed enough to start taking in the scenery.

"Want to gallop?" Sherlock asked, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

"Is it hard?" John asked.

"Nope."

"Okay then." John shrugged. How much different could it be?

Sherlock let out a whoop and then smacked the mare's rump. She took off like a bullet from a gun and John yelped, grabbing the reins for dear life. Hooves thudded on the grass and the air whistled in his ears as adrenaline pumped in his veins. They were going pretty fast and John was bouncing all over the saddle. _It's all about rhythm._ He remembered Sherlock saying this as a low branch nearly took his head off. He'd ducked just in time. The denser woods broke into a sparsely populated forest of extremely tall pine trees. A carpet of pink-brown dead needles covered the earth and John craned his neck, taking in the dark green and browns as they whipped past in a blur of sticky pine scented air. The tree were so tall in here that they blotted the sun. It was nice, but also ridiculously bouncy‒he hadn't found the rhythm yet and his thighs were starting to burn.

Sherlock galloped up beside him, grinning maniacally. John gave him a similar grin and urged the horse on faster. They ran through the pine forest and across a small muddy meadow dotted with wildflowers before crashing into the river up to the horses' knees, spraying water all over themselves and everything before finally coming to a stop.

John laughed, giddy with excitement and amazed he hadn't fallen off.

"Look at you‒you're a natural!" Sherlock crowed. "I can't believe you stayed on!"

John caught his breath, still grinning. "That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"Oh yeah? Wait until the ride home." Sherlock had that devilish gleam again and he winked.

After the trail blazing ride, John asked Sherlock if he wanted to have lunch with him in the courtyard. "It's okay if you don't." John added hastily. "I know you can just go up to the house and eat but we have sandwich stuff in the fridge and Coke and water and whatever."

"Yeah, I'll stay." Sherlock didn't hesitate.

They each made giant sandwiches and had devoured half under the shade of the apple tree when John spoke up.

"How long have you played the violin?"

"Eight years."

"When's the recital?" John took another big bite.

"Saturday afternoon. Do you want to come?" Sherlock's voice was muffled around the bread and lettuce. He hadn't really meant to ask. Surely John wouldn't want to sit through an hour of his teacher's various students' scratching away at strings or squeaking on horns. Once again though, John was a surprise.

"If I can get away I'll come see you play."

"Y-you will?"

"Sure. I've never seen a violin up close before. I don't think I've ever heard one live either."

Sherlock was floored. "You've never seen someone play in person?"

"No. How would I?" John shrugged and took another bite. "I can't afford to go to the symphony. No one at the home ever played any instrument. The counselors can't afford to provide musical instruments for every kid. The budget is tight enough as it is. Music is easy to eliminate when there's barely enough food or school books to go around."

Sherlock took another bite. These were problems he'd never had to worry about or consider. Food and school and the violin were always just there. His mother handed him the instrument when he was four and he never really put it down, he just got bigger ones and harder lesson books.

"Well, you'll see on Saturday." Sherlock told him. They finished their sandwiches.


	3. Chapter 3

"Mum? Dad?" Sherlock wandered through the house to the kitchen where both his parents were standing and talking about Sherringford's upcoming business trip.

"What is it, son?" She asked.

Sherlock stood in the doorway and drew himself up to his full five feet ten inches. "If John doesn't come to my recital on Saturday, I'm never playing the violin again!" With that, he turned on his heel and left.

Sherringford and Charlotte stared at each other for a moment.

"Who is John?" Sherringford asked.

"That new boy helping Alistair with the horses."

"Ah." Sherringford sipped his coffee. "I hope John _wants_ to go, because he's going to…" he trailed off, "…didn't pay for violin lessons for eight years just to have the boy quit now…"

"No." Charlotte said. She was eager to meet John. Anyone who wanted to be friends with Sherlock was welcome as far as they were concerned. Sherlock had such trouble making friends. Sherringford wouldn't be able to make it to the recital, as he had to go into London for a few days for work. Charlotte strode to the stable that very day to tell Alistair that John would need Saturday afternoon off.

John was enchanted. The recital included a dozen kids ages four and up, with Sherlock being the second oldest student and therefore the second to last to play. John was seated in the front row with Charlotte Holmes, wearing a pair of black trousers and a green shirt that had appeared without a clue in Alistair's office earlier that day. John was particularly taken with the student before Sherlock, a brunette ten year old on the clarinet. She finished a lively piece and everyone applauded before she flounced off the stage.

The applause died and Sherlock stepped into the spotlight, sweeping onto the stage like he owned the whole venue and placing his violin to his chin with a flourish. John read his program. Sherlock was going to play two movements from a Bach sonata and then a minuet. Whatever that meant. They could call it whatever they wanted, John thought it was beautiful. The violin itself was a pretty thing to look at, but Sherlock's inherent physical exoticness simply added to the allure of the pieces. He was wearing a suit, complete with tails which John honestly was a little much, but it fit Sherlock's personality perfectly. He flew through the pieces, playing them perfectly (to John's ear, anyway) and effortlessly and he got a loud round of applause when he lowered the violin and bowed. He caught John's eye‒he gave him a thumb's up‒and Sherlock smiled for the first since taking the stage. He bowed once more, seeming genuinely humbled by the long applause, and exited. A fifteen year old playing Joplin and Debussy on the piano finished off the afternoon.

As soon as the crowd started to rise and disperse, John darted up the steps and backstage. He found Sherlock in a corner rubbing a cloth over the wooden part of the bow.

"That was great." John said.

"Thank you." Sherlock flashed a grin at him knelt beside the open case, fitting the bow back inside. John stared down at the red-brown instrument. It looked expensive.

"Do you want to try?" Sherlock was kneeling there, looking up at him.

"Oh no‒I don't want to break it."

"You won't break it."

"I…"

Sherlock pulled the violin out of the case and grabbed the bow again, standing and handing them over to John. "Put it like this…"

Charlotte made her way to the back of the stage, her path hampered by greeting other parents and congratulating the milling students. She exchanged a few words with Sherlock's teacher and it was a solid fifteen minute before she could get to her son‒a fact she knew Sherlock would be impatient about‒and she froze. John and Sherlock were in the corner and to her amazement, John was playing the violin with Sherlock looking on. She couldn't believe it. He never even let anyone else touch the case, much less the instrument itself. Mycroft had committed that sin once and only once. She watched as John said something and Sherlock laughed, his eyes crinkling in happiness. John Watson was definitely different.

* * *

 

"Sherlock?" Sherringford Holmes knocked on his youngest's bedroom door one evening in early August. There was no answer. He pushed it open and saw Sherlock hunched over his microscope, the table spread with open books. He was probably working on one of his cases. Sherlock had a huge, almost alarming obsession with solving problems and working out puzzles. When he was younger, he helped a neighbor figure out exactly how his dog kept escaping from the yard‒something about how the fence was too low and the dog was jumping out, as opposed to digging a hole as the neighbor suspected. That, Sherlock had chalked up to badgers.

After that, there was a case with a drowned child and swimming pool that Sherlock took a huge interest in. Sherringford and his wife put their foot down when Sherlock tried to go to the police and 'help' in the investigation. He'd been unhappy, but relented, instead sticking to aiding the neighbors or conducting experiments in his room, which was half bedroom, half science lab.

In the corner, an aquarium half filled with water was brimming with five wriggly tadpoles. His school tie was hanging around the neck of the skeleton near the window. Sherlock didn't respond to his father and Sherringford sat at the table. His phone rang and he stood up again, "excuse me, son."  Sherlock adjusted the slide as his father answered and spoke to the person on the other end. Someone from work, by the sound of it. Sherringford worked crazy long hours at his job in the city, and when he wasn't there, he was usually on the phone or his computer. He had a mobile phone, amazingly, that his company provided and which Sherlock had promptly taken apart the moment his father left it unattended. There'd been no repercussions for his breaking the expensive phone. His father hadn't been pleased, but Sherlock had wanted to see how it worked, and the company had given his father a new one the next day.

Sherlock learned a long time ago that his father, despite his imposing height and stern demeanor, would pretty much let him get away with anything as long as it made him happy. Sherringford wasn't around much, but he wanted his children to be content.

"Sorry, son." Sherringford sat back at the table. Sherlock still didn't look up. "Sherlock, can you look at me?"

He sat back, mildly annoyed at being interrupted.

"You're going to be starting school soon‒"

"Ulgh, father! Why are you reminding me? I still have weeks yet!" He peered back into the microscope, ugly feelings in his chest.

"Yes, but summer always goes by faster than we think it will…ah, do you need anything for this coming term?"

"Teachers that aren't daft, textbooks that don't bore me, and classmates that aren't idiots." Sherlock hissed.

Sherringford sighed. Sherlock had started secondary school last year‒his first year in a new school‒and it had been rough on him. Sherlock didn't make friends easily, not like Mycroft, and Sherringford worried when Sherlock would come home with bruises or scrapes and claim sullenly that everything was fine. Mr. Holmes tried, Lord knew he tried to make it easier for Sherlock. He spoke with teachers and administrators and funneled money into the school in the hopes of making it easier for his boy. Saint Gabriel's was excellent school‒one of the best in the country. Sherlock had flown through the entrance exams in record time and been accepted immediately.

Sherlock had always been…different. Too bright. Too tall. Too odd looking. And he was at the age now where children could be absolute terrors to those who didn't conform to the unspoken rules of acceptance.  When he was younger, they'd tried keeping Sherlock home with private tutors, but when that failed, Sherringford, at the edge of insanity, tried to get Mycroft to teach him. That had lasted approximately twenty minutes before failing. Sherringford was glad Mycroft was the opposite sort of personality, he didn't think he could go through this twice. He felt helpless when it came to understanding his son. He couldn't keep up with him mentally, but he did have money. He bought the best of everything that he could: books. Journal subscriptions. Science equipment. He had a driver available if Sherlock ever wanted to go to the library or the museum. He bought Galileo for Sherlock after a particularly horrible school week last year that left him in tears all weekend. Mycroft had struck gold with that microscope though. Sherlock loved it and used it almost every day.

"Maybe if you joined a club?" Sherringford offered.

"Father."

"What if you started one?"

"No one would join if I was involved." Sherlock said darkly. "Father, can't you just let me enjoy my last few days of freedom?"

Sherringford sighed. "Fine. If you need anything, tell me. Does your uniform still fit?"

"I don't know. Probably."

Mr. Holmes ruffled Sherlock's hair and left the room, closing the door behind.

Sherlock stared at the wad of pond scum on the slide a few moments longer, then sat back and shut off the microscope. It was no use. He was thinking about school now, and how he'd have to go back to that wretched place in a matter of days. Father was right. Summer went by too fast. It always did. Now that his father had brought it up, it was impossible to stop thinking about it…

_"Sherlock! What kind of a stupid-arse name is Sherlock? What are you, gay or something?"_

_"You're so ugly, Shitlock. What happened to your face? Is your mother as ugly as you are?"_

These were the sorts of insults that filled his day, bookended by dull teachers and tedious homework. He didn't want to go back. He never wanted to go back. Sherlock stood up and paced as his brain started going into over drive. He grabbed his head and tried to do a breathing exercise that a therapist he'd seen last year had taught him. After trying that for ten minutes, he stopped. It was no good. He felt a growing tightness in his throat and behind his eyes and his brain felt like it was running away from him. A panicky sort of adrenaline filled his veins. His brain was going so fast, spitting out insults the bullies yelled at him and the comforting words of his parents and teachers. Images of the school and of himself laying in bed late into the nights worrying and the bullies' teasing faces and the stable and for some reason, John. Emotions filled him to the brim‒anger, despair, curiosity, boredom‒he thought of John again and felt hopeful. Why the hell would John make him hopeful? They weren't even friends. John was just a stable boy and no friend of his.

With an exasperated gasp he left his room and charged down to the stables. It was getting dark out, but screw it. He wanted to get out. He needed to get out of his room and the house and his mind and just leave it behind. He threw the bridle on Galileo, foregoing the saddle completely, and threw open the gate, galloping off into the field behind their home. The moon was full and bright, the air was cool and smelled of the coming autumn. Sherlock breathed in the fresh air whipping around his face, the pounding hooves on the grass, and his brain finally quieted.

* * *

 

The next morning, John was awoken by the sound of Alistair stomping up the ladder into his loft.

"Hey Al." John sat up and rubbed his eyes. He looked at the tiny ancient alarm clock and saw that it was five am. Not even light out. "What's going on?"

"Did you do any work late last night?" He sounded out of breath.

"Um, no." John's brows knitted in confusion. "Was there something I was supposed to do?"

"No, lad. Come on down."

John went out into the quiet early morning and shivered, pulling a long sleeved shirt on top of his sleep shirt. Their neighbor, a red head named Marla that John had seen once at a distance, was standing the stable holding a torch and looking grim.

"What happened?" John asked.

"Someone left the gate open last night. Bellisima's gone."

"Oh no‒she was sick recently." John looked from Marla to Alistair.

"Aye." Alistair sighed. "We need to find her‒mornings and evenings are getting colder and if she gets ill again out there in the woods or falls and breaks a leg…"

John nodded. Alistair didn't need to finish. Mycroft's horse could get sick and die out in a field somewhere if they couldn't get to her fast enough.

"Maybe a neighbor has her? John suggested.

"I've been checking." Marla said. "The neighbors all know to look for her. Someone'll bring her by if they catch her."

"What do you want me to do?" John asked. At this, Alistair took him by the arm and pulled him aside. "Johnny, I'm going to ask you something and I need you to answer me with the truth."

"Okay…" John said. Alistair put both his hands on John's shoulders and crouched down so they were eye level.

"Did you leave the gate open?"

"No." John shook his head. "No Alistair, I didn't."

The Scot stared at him and John knew he didn't quite believe him.

"I swear‒ I fed them, I went for a walk, and then I went to bed."

"Where did you walk?"

"The back field…through the gate‒but I closed it after I came back."

"Alright, then." Alistair straightened up. "We'll keep looking. I've informed Mr. Holmes, and the boys will be out in a moment to help."

* * *

 

Sherlock was scared. The horse was missing and everyone was worried and the worst part about it‒he honestly couldn't remember if he had shut the gate last night after riding Galileo. He thought he had. He always did. It was such a force of habit that he just assumed he had and had given it no thought until Alistair informed his father that the mare was missing. What if he'd left it open? What if his brother's sick horse died because of him? It was just a horse, but Mycroft had gotten him that microscope earlier this summer and Sherlock thought it would be really unfair if he by turn indirectly killed the mare.

Several hours later, when the sun was high in the sky, John came trudging out of the woods leading a mud covered Bellisima. Her red blanket was torn up and her eyes were bright with fever. John was exhausted, but he was glad she was found.

"Oh, thank goodness." Alistair took the lead from John and brought her inside. Marla came riding back up on her thoroughbred and John told her the news.

"Good lad, John. I'll find the others. You rest."

John sat gratefully in the shade and took a long drink from the hosepipe. Within half an hour, everyone was home and the vet was on the way.

"Thank you, John." Mycroft said, giving him a friendly pat on the back. "Sincerely. I've had her since I was a child."

"No problem." John said. "I'm glad she's alright."

Sherlock hung back under the apple tree near the foaling barn, watching. John waved at him, and after a moment, Sherlock waved back. He stayed put though. He didn't want to talk to John. Sherlock had left the gate open, he knew it. He sure as hell wasn't going to tell anyone though. Bellisima was fine so it didn't really matter anyway. He sat under the tree for the next forty-five minutes, organizing his thoughts, getting his brain back into working order and trying out that breathing exercise again.

"John?"

Sherlock opened his eyes, watching the handler come out of the stable.

John appeared from around a corner, and Sherlock could just barely hear their conversation.

"I need to ask you again, John‒did you leave the gate open?"

"No, Alistair." John's voice was pained and Sherlock winced. "I didn't, at least, I don't think I did…"

Alistair rubbed his forehead. "The thing is John, someone did. It wasn't me and neither of the boys was out last night. Are you absolutely sure? Because it was locked when I went to bed last night. I checked. Maybe after your walk you didn't latch it properly?"

Sherlock sat up straighter. No one knew he had gone out. Not even Alistair.

John sighed. "I _think_ I did, but…" he shrugged. "I don't know anymore. I…sorry, Al. I mean, I did lock it but _maybe_ it didn't catch properly."

"Double‒triple check it next time, Johnny."

"Yes, sir."

"I think being sent to bed without supper for three nights will be a good enough reminder to check the gate from now on, hm?"

John had a miserable look on his face and Sherlock almost got up to run over there and declare that it had been him all along. He shifted, ready to stand, but stopped. What did he care what happened to John? John looked up at Al, pained. Sherlock could tell by the way he balled his hands into fists and lifted his chin that he wanted to argue, but he didn't.

"Fine, sir." He didn’t sound happy. Alistair nodded and walked away. A breeze rustled the yellowing leaves on the tree above him, and Sherlock sat there, still poised to stand and defend John as his hair fluttered over his face.

 


	4. Chapter 4

It poured rain that night, but that didn't stop Sherlock. At ten pm, when he was supposed to be asleep in bed (haha, he hadn't followed a bedtime since he was about five) he threw off the bed covers and slipped on his dressing gown and shoes. Thunder rumbled and the steady _shhhh_ of rain on the roof got louder.

Sherlock crept down the steps. The house was quiet this time of night. Occasionally Mycroft would be up and about, but he had class tomorrow and would be in bed. Sherlock tiptoed through the dim house to the kitchens and grabbed a cloth lunch bag from the cabinet under the sink. He opened the fridge, wincing at the blast of cold, and glanced over the food. A couple slices of sausage and olive pizza, cold chips, a chicken leg, an apple. That should be good enough. He shoved it all in the bag and wedged a napkin on top and started to creep out of the kitchen. He turned around and grabbed a water bottle, sticking that inside as well.

He had to bring him food. The gate had been his stupid fault and there was no way Sherlock was going to let John go hungry all night. The rain would just be his own part of the punishment. He snagged and umbrella, Mycroft's, from the stand by the door, and quietly as he could, opened the front door and went out into the night.

It was windy. The umbrella almost blew inside out a few times and Sherlock's feet and pajama bottoms were wet and grassy when he pulled open the stable door and went in. Galileo snorted at him as he went past.

"Sh…" Sherlock patted his nose and kept walking.

John was sticking his head over the top of the loft, looking down curiously.

"Sherlock?" He blinked. "What are you doing here?"

Sherlock put the umbrella on the ground and climbed the ladder up to John's space.

"Don't be an idiot, I'm obviously bringing you food." He said. "Here." He pushed the bag at John and the older boy nearly tore it open, going through both slices of pizza and half the chips before he spoke.

"Thanks, Sherlock. Really."

"You're welcome." Sherlock said, sitting beside John on the cot. It was dark up here, but dry and warm. Sherlock peered around as John ate, taking in the crates and tiny lamp beside the cot. He couldn’t help but compare his space and John's. Not in a malicious way, but the difference was so stark he could hardly not notice it. A small part of him wished John had something better. A real bed. A real home.

"Did anyone see you?"

"Of course not."

"Why did you bring me food?" John asked, chomping on the apple, catching the juice with the provided napkin. "Not that I'm complaining."

Sherlock decided in that moment to take a chance.

"Because that's what friends do." He said. Here we go. Here's where John would laugh and scoff and tell him they sure as hell weren't friends‒who could be friends with a freak like him?

John grinned. "Yeah. It is, isn't it?"

* * *

 

The weeks went by and John and Sherlock spent nearly every moment of John's free time together. Sherlock even helped John a few times with the chores so they could finish early and go into town or go riding by the river. As they go to know each other, John found that though Sherlock was still arrogant and rude, there was still something there that felt right. In a way it felt like they had known each other for ages. It became obvious early on that Sherlock didn’t have a whole lot of mates, as he rarely mentioned school or other friends.

"How come you never want to talk about school?" John asked. They were throwing stones into the pond on the Holmes' property, upsetting the fish.

"I don't like school." Sherlock said stiffly.

"Why?"

"The other boys are mean. The teachers are dumb."

"Be mean back at them." John said. He skipped a stone.

"I try. Well, I used to try. Then they just gang up and beat on me."

"Can you tell someone?"

"The teachers don't always see it. And anyway, their interference makes it worse. If Jim and Seb get detention, they just beat me up harder after."

"That's shitty. What about a different school?"

"Tried. Wouldn't help. My old school was _okay_ , but this one…even though father pays them scads of money, it's still not so good…" he trailed off and threw a stone. It landed in the center of the pond with a loud _ka-sploosh!_ "I'm going back there soon. I don’t want to."

John put his arm around him companionably. "Maybe this year will be better. Maybe Jim and Seb got the black plague over the summer and won't come back."

Sherlock grinned. "Yeah‒maybe rats are chewing up their dicks!"

John giggled. "And their stupid faces!"

"Yeah!"

The conversation continued in a similar vein, and eventually the favorite scenario was that Sherlock's bullies got the plague over summer and then got sucked up into a black hole and flung into a parallel universe inhabited by X-men and zombie pirates that tore them limb from limb.

They were riding back home for supper, John had finished his chores, and Alistair was waiting for them outside the stable. Another boy who looked a little bit older than John was standing beside him. "Who's that?" Sherlock snapped as they approached.

"I don't know." John said.

"Are you getting replaced?"

"Oh‒I hope not!" John had passed the probation session with flying colors ages ago. "Unless it's because we've been ducking out during the day…"

"But you get all the work done! I've seen you working!"

"Yeah…it shouldn't be that." John bit his lip as they dismounted and walked up to Alistair and the new boy. He was a little taller than John. He had a longish nose, dark hair, and a sort of pretentious air about him.

"John, Sherlock." Alistair greeted them. "This is Anderson. He's going to be helping out around here for a few months, working in the house and in the stable." Alistair didn't seem too thrilled about this. In fact, he seemed a lot less happy than he had when he was showing John around all those days ago.

"Hi, Anderson." John extended his hand. Anderson took it and squeezed it very hard. Too hard. John squeezed back, forcing a smile onto his face. He got a bad vibe from this kid.

"Hello Anderson." Sherlock said. Neither boy extended their hands and John could tell he wanted to say something mean to Sherlock. Wisely, he didn't, otherwise John would punch him.

Alistair cleared his throat. "If he has any questions on the job, John, answer them."

"Sure."

"You're all done with your work?" Al asked.

"Yep."

"Good lad." Alistair continued on with Anderson and Sherlock and John watched them go.

"I don't like him." Sherlock hissed.

"Stop. You don't even know him."

"I don't need to. His face puts me off."

"Hopefully you won't need to talk to him much."

* * *

 

John was right. Sherlock didn't need to talk to him much, but John did. And that was unfortunate.

"So what's the deal with that Shirk kid? He seems weird." Anderson said a couple days later. John was mucking a stall. Anderson was supposed to be doing the same, but he had elected to abandon his shovel and ask John pointless questions and waste time instead.

"Shirk?"

"That scrawny kid with the curly hair."

"Oh‒ _Sherlock_." John thought it wonderfully ironic that Anderson had confused Sherlock's name with the very thing he was doing: shirking his duty to distract John.

"He lives here." John groused. "His parents are the ones we work for."

"Huh." Anderson sneered.

"Did you finish your stall?" John asked, annoyed that this kid was just standing there watching him.

"No."

"Okay, then." John lifted the last shovel-full into the wheelbarrow and set the shovel aside. He wheeled the mess to the dumping heap behind the stable. Anderson followed.

"Are you guys boyfriends?"

"No." He upturned the manure onto the pile, wishing he could do so on Anderson's head.

"Are you guys fuckin' each other?"

"No!" John blazed. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He got up in Anderson's face. He was itching for a fight. This kid had been annoying him since the day he started and John wanted nothing more than to sock his lights out.

Sherlock rounded the corner at that moment. Quite possibly the worst timing ever.

"John?" He called. He spotted them and froze.

"Oh look‒it's your boyfriend." Anderson sneered.

"Boyfriend?" Sherlock frowned. John saw he was holding something‒a book. He had been lending John books for weeks. He'd already gone through the collected works of Robert Louis Stevenson and was moving on to anything and everything Sherlock found interesting. Some of it was dry and dull, but Sherlock lit up like a firework any time John expressed an interest.

 _Go away, Sherlock._ John mentally pleaded. _Let me handle this arsehole._ John knew instinctively that Anderson wouldn't hesitate to beat Sherlock up. He was just that kind of person and it brought out the protective bear in John.

"Anderson?" Alistair. He was in the stable. "John?" He came out and saw them nose to nose, a fight clearly brewing. "What's going on out here?"

Both boys stepped apart. "Nothing, Alistair." John said. "I was just dumping this wheelbarrow when Sherlock came to visit."

Alistair looked at Anderson expectedly.

"Oh, uh, I, uh was helping."

"Uh-huh." Alistair obviously didn't believe him at all. "Go to the kitchen, Anderson. They need help making supper."

Anderson strode off without a word and John turned to Alistair. "I was working, I swear."

"I know you were Johnny. I saw Anderson's abandoned work. If that kid doesn't shape up, he's going to find himself on the next train back to his home."

"Do you want me to finish his stuff?" John asked.

Alistair looked at Sherlock, still standing there clutching his book.

"Nah, go off and play. I'll do it."

"Thanks, Al!"

A few moments later and the boys were up in John's loft. He was flipping through the illustrated hardcover guide the universe that Sherlock brought, marveling at the pictures.

"This is fantastic, Sherlock." He said, staring at a scene of the Andromeda Galaxy.

"Sure." Sherlock wandered around the small space. It was even smaller now that Anderson had a cot crammed up there too.

"Hey." John said. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock kicked at a loose bit of straw on the floor. "I start school in two days."

"Oh." Inside, John was jealous. Absolutely _green_ with envy. He'd kill to get a year at a school like Sherlock's. That would never happen though. He was a stable boy orphan and he lived with the horses. Sherlock's school was for kids, well, like Sherlock. Wealthy and educated and pedigreed. "Well, cheer up, mate." John said. "Maybe this year will be better?"

 _It will._ Sherlock thought. _You'll be here when I get home._

* * *

 

Two days later, September first, Sherlock was storming across the lawn after school, intent on following John all afternoon if he had to and complaining about his first day back at the wretched place. Jim and Seb were still there, unfortunately, and it was just‒ulgh! It was like they got even more annoying and horrible over the summer. He heard a burst of raucous laughter from outside the stable and he froze. John for sure, and then…Anderson? Sherlock listened harder. It was. They were laughing. They were enjoying themselves. John was having a good time without him. Sherlock looked down at himself. He was still in his navy blazer with the embroidered St. Gabriel's crest and striped tie, light years away from the orphans' trainers and old jeans. Anderson would have a field day with him, he knew it. Maybe John would even join in. Dejected and feeling very small and alone, Sherlock turned away and trudged back to the house. Just like that, he was alone again.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock came by the stable less and less as the week drew on, a fact that wasn't lost on John.

"Alistair?" He asked, "I know Sherlock is in school now, but he never comes down here anymore. Did something happen?"

"Not that I've heard, Johnny. Did you two fight?"

"No." John said, thinking. "I don't think so."

He was delighted then, to see a familiar dark haired figure come across the lawn that evening.

"Sherlock!" He called happily. "Hey!"

"John." Sherlock gave him a nod. "Will you saddle Galileo for me?"

"Yeah, of course‒hey how's school going? Is it better?"

"Thanks." Sherlock gave him a chilly smile and walked away. John stood there, watching him, feeling like he'd been punched in the stomach with a fist made of ice and iron.

"Sherlock?" He asked the retreating figure.

"Now please, John. It's getting dark."

"Yeah…okay." John ducked into the stable and Sherlock watched him go, a heavy pain in his heart. He knew it was too good to be true, that John would want to stay friends with him. Who was he anyway? John wanted to talk to Anderson now, not him. There was a hard shove on his shoulder, and Sherlock stumbled. He whipped around and saw Anderson laughing. "Watch where you're going, you little weirdo." He sauntered into the stable as John brought Galileo out.

"Here you go." John looked like a kicked puppy as he offered Sherlock the reins. "Want, want me to go with? I could take Bellisima."

"No." Sherlock swung into the saddle and bolted away.

* * *

 

John went about his work for the next several days, unhappier than he'd ever been while working at the Holmes estate. He may as well not exist to Sherlock for all the attention he was giving John. He stopped visiting and bringing books. He stopped asking John to go to the pond or the river with him. They no longer rode together. Anderson was hardly an adequate substitute. John didn't see much of him anyway, as he worked in both the house and the stable. His friendship with Sherlock had ended so abruptly that John almost wondered if it had happened at all. He had obviously done something to upset Sherlock, but he had no idea what. He threw himself into his chores so much so that Alistair commented.

"You're doing a good job, John." He said as the boy brushed Bellisima.

"Thanks, Al."

"Not that I'm complaining," He said, slipping his hands into his pockets, "but why the sudden spike in your work ethic?"

John threw the brush in the bucket and grabbed a comb. "I'm here to work, so that's what I'm doing."

"And you find yourself with less free time now that Sherlock is back in classes?"

John paused. "Yeah. But it's not just that, Alistair. He's angry with me and I don't know why. I didn't do anything…I couldn't even keep him away from that school he hates so much."

"Now don't feel bad about that, John. Sherlock's always had a rough go of school. He's a smart kid. Too smart for Saint Gabriel's, if you ask me."

John went around the horse to work on her other side. "I wish I could go there with him. I'd beat up all his bullies and they'd leave him alone forever."

Alistair smiled. "I bet you would, Johnny." It was too bad really, Alistair mused. In another time and place, these two would have been schoolmates and Sherlock would be happier. He'd never seen Sherlock as happy as he had been this past summer since John had been there. It had been nice to see the boy smiling and laughing.

"How are you getting on with Anderson?" He asked. If it was up to him, he'd send Anderson back to his home. He had a rude attitude and Alistair knew he didn't do all his work.

"He's alright." John said. "We're not friends, sir, but…" he thought of what Anderson said about Sherlock, and the way he looked at the gangly younger boy like he was a piece of prey to be shredded. "Honestly we stay out of each other's way and that's fine with me."

Alistair nodded. John heard footsteps in the corridor approaching Bellisima's stall. "Keep up the good work, John." Alistair looked towards the approaching figure.

"Mr. Holmes." He greeted. Mycroft came into view.

"Good afternoon, Alistair."

John toss the comb in the bucket and lead the horse into the corridor.

"Hello, John." Mycroft was in his riding gear, similar to Sherlock's though in shades of brown instead of grey.

"Hi, Mycroft. I'll have her ready in a second."

"Take your time."

Alistair went off to do work and John draped a blanket over the mare's back.

"Mycroft…" he said. The older Holmes boy looked up at him. "Do you know…is Sherlock okay?"

"As okay as he can be, I think. Why? Did he say something to you?" His voice was all concern.

"No. That's just it. He's not saying anything to me."

"Ah. Sherlock is moody at the best of times, John. I'm sure he's just adjusting to his new schedule. He'll probably be back down here bothering you before you know it."

John nodded and threw the saddle up on Bellisima's back. That was probably it. Maybe Sherlock was just busy with homework and needed some space.

* * *

 

"You better run, you little arsehole!"

Sherlock tore up the lane after school, fleeing from Jim and Seb. They'd been cracking their knuckles and watching him all through the day as he made his way from class to class, sizing him up, probably arguing over which parts of him each would get to punch today. If he absolutely had to find a bright side, it was that he was the fastest runner in the school. He'd been approached by the track and field coach the other day and everything.

Sherlock rounded a corner and sprinted up the street. They never followed him that far, as that would take them farther away from the school and other potential targets. Sure enough, they fell back, waving him off as a lost cause, and Sherlock caught his breath. Another day free. Adjusting his bag, he hurried to the corner to try and catch his bus home. If the driver saw him, she would usually take pity on him and pull over to let him on rather than let him walk the rest of the way home. Sure enough, the bus was pulling up the road when he reached the intersection. Sherlock sighed, mentally counting down the days until the next summer holidays.

He crunched up the pebbled front path to the house fifteen minutes later, seriously debating about going to the stable to see John. He missed his friend. His first real friend. He had a boatload of homework though‒not that it was any excuse. He could get the week's assignments done in an hour if he wanted to. Still though…not now. He wanted to get started on a project the teacher mentioned would be due at the end of the month.

* * *

 

John was laying in his cot one evening, the moonlight brightening up the space, reading the universe book Sherlock had left him. Anderson was on the other side of the loft, snoring. There was a faint rustling below, then the light of a torch being thrown around. John shut the book. Someone was coming. His heart jumped as he realized it could be Sherlock coming to visit‒that would be great. John watched the top of the ladder with held breath, and was disappointed and promptly worried when Alistair poked his head over the top.

"John?" Alistair looked grim as he entered the loft.

"I didn't touch the gate, this time I'm certain."

"Nothing's wrong with the gate, lad. Wake Anderson."

"What's going on?" John asked, slipping his dusty jeans on over his pants. His shoes followed on his feet.

"Just wake Anderson and go on to the house." Alistair handed John another torch and then stood there, waiting.

"Anderson." John shoved the other kid.

"Huh!? What do you want?"

"We have to go to the house. C'mon."

They were soon crossing the dark lawn en route to the house.

"Do you know what's going on?" John asked, shining the light in front of them.

"No."

"Did something happen?"

"How the hell should I know?" Anderson groused. "It better be good if they're waking us in the middle of the damn night."

John felt worried. There was no way this was going to be good, whatever it was. John hadn't done anything, but had Anderson? Did someone in the home die?  Did something happen to either Sherlock or Mycroft? John licked his lips. He hoped not. They went up to the back door. It was ajar and they went inside and John got his first glimpse of the inside of the Holmes home. The door lead into a sort of parlor decorated immaculately in shades of cream and scarlet. Antique sofas, paintings, a plush area rug, a section off to the side that contained amber liquids in square bottles. Sipping from a tumbler filled with a quarter of the rust colored liquid was Mr. Holmes. John had never seen him, but he resembled both his sons and John instantly saw where Sherlock got his cheekbones.  He was tall and cut an imposing figure. He had an expression on that was as grim as Alistair's had been, though maybe it was just the whiskey he was drinking.

John was pleased and relieved to see Sherlock flopped on one of the sofas, dressed in ivory and blue pajamas and a blue silk dressing gown, drumming his fingers along the armrest. He looked up when the boys entered, and John gave him a small smile. He was relieved when Sherlock returned it shyly.

John felt distinctly nervous in his belly. What on earth could have happened?

"Boys." Sherringford came up to them and John stood up straight. "I've been hearing some nasty things about what's going on around here."

John glanced at Anderson. His hands were in his pockets and he was staring at the floor.

"There's been rumors of some thieving going on."

John blinked. Thieving?

"Now, I'm not saying it was one of you‒a lot of people work here and it could be anyone, but I've spoken with a few of the servants and narrowed it down to a few possibilities."

Alistair came through the door just then, holding a lumpy black cloth.

"I found some of the items, sir." He said. He unwrapped the cloth, revealing a set of silver candlesticks. John had never seen them before in his life. Beside him, Anderson shifted on the carpet.

"Thank you, Alistair." Sherringford was genuinely pleased as he perused the items. "This isn't all of it. Where did you find it?"

Alistair swallowed and spoke quietly. "Under a stack of John's shirts."

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

John's jaw fell and every eye in the room turned to him. "It wasn't me!" John said. "I've never even seen that stuff before!" He glanced frantically between Alistair and Mr. Holmes. "You have to believe me‒I've never stolen anything in my life."

Sherlock slipped off the sofa and stood beside his father.

Some tears crept into John's eyes. They would send him away. They'd make him go back to the home‒or jail. No‒it couldn't happen. He loved it here!

"Father." Sherlock tugged his dad's sleeve.

"Yes, son?"

"It wasn't John." He said.

Sherringford crouched in front of him. "How do you know?"

"Well, John's never been in the house, and those candlesticks went missing two days ago, in the afternoon." Sherlock shrugged. "John wasn't even here‒him and Alistair went into Chelmsford for supplies all day."

Silence. John breathed a sigh of relief. It was true.

"How do you know it was two days ago?" Sherringford asked.

"Because I _saw_ the candlesticks were missing. I noticed. I assumed they had been taken down for polishing." He cast a cold glare at Anderson. "My mistake. Anderson and John share a space in the stable, it would be stupidly easy to frame him, I think even Anderson could manage it."

Sherlock sounded almost bored but John could have hugged him. Sherringford stood up again.

"Alright. John, go back to bed. Anderson, you stay here."

John caught Sherlock's eye and mouthed a 'thank you'. Sherlock nodded in return.

"I don’t know what that stuff is." Anderson protested. John didn't want to hear anymore. He went out the back door, relief flooding his limbs as he used the torch again to guide his path. He didn't know what would happen to the thief and he didn't care. It was probably Anderson. He hoped it was. He was rude and a slacker and he snored.

* * *

 

John never saw Anderson again. And happily, his abrupt departure coincided with Sherlock coming down to visit him more often again.

John was dumping feed into Galileo's stall when he heard a soft "hey" behind him. Sherlock. He was dressed in his stiff grey riding clothes.

"Hi, Sherlock." John smiled briefly, unsure where their relationship stood.

"Sorry." Sherlock mumbled, picking at a thread in his trousers. "For ignoring you and stuff."

"Apology accepted. Thanks for sticking up for me in front of your dad."

Sherlock grinned. "Want to go riding?"

"Oh God, yes."

* * *

 

Autumn was in full swing. The trees were golden and crimson, the leaves littering the green stiff grass. The horses were let out in the field with blankets now, to ward off the winter chill that was threaded in the cool air. It was on a Friday afternoon like this that Sherlock came storming into the stable, crying. John was polishing a saddle in the tack room when he heard the footsteps and sniffles. He froze, listening.

"John?" A weak, croaky voice wobbled in the air.

"Sherlock?" John put his rag down and stood up, poking his head out of the room. When his friend saw him, he burst into fresh tears. John stepped forward, the protectiveness in him surging at the sight of Sherlock sobbing. He put an arm around him, pulling him into a sideways squeeze.

"Come on in here." John steered him into the tack room and pulled a stool from under a shelf. Sherlock sat, rubbing his eyes, and John picked some bits of leaf out of his hair. He glanced over the scuffs and dirt on the rough fabric of his navy blazer. A sort of rage bubbled in his stomach. He suddenly wanted to find Sherlock's bullies and hurt them very badly and very slowly.

"I'll get the first aid kit, you sit tight‒do you want a Coke?"

Sherlock nodded, rubbing his eyes.

John went into the corridor and grabbed the kit from Alistair's tiny office. John nudged the fridge open with his foot and grabbed two Cokes.

"Jim again?" He handed the drink over and Sherlock popped the tab, taking a tiny sip. He nodded. John dabbed at his cut lip with antiseptic.

"He's a shit head. Forget about him. Whatever horrible things he calls you, it's not true, okay?"

More tears filled Sherlock's eyes, but this time it wasn't from the bullying. He'd never had a friend to say such nice things to him before. To encourage him and try to make him feel better. It was nice. It was really, really nice. He started crying harder.

"Wha‒it's alright, Sherlock." John's voice rose an octave. "They're just awful and nothing they say is true."

This didn't seem to help.

"I can teach you to punch?!" John suggested, getting frantic now. What if Sherlock was really hurt and was bleeding inside or something? He was about to run and find Alistair‒

"I thought you hated me." Sherlock mumbled, wiping his eyes.

"What? Why?"

"When, when Anderson was here…I heard you l-laughing."

John frowned. When the hell had he ever had a good time with Anderson?

"It was, it was after my first day." Sherlock hiccupped, "and you guys were laughing. I thought it was about me…"

That afternoon came back to John and he closed his eyes.

"Oh Sherlock. He was just telling me a stupid story about a kid at his home who had a dirty magazine and then this visiting nun found it, and‒that's all. It was just a dumb story." John insisted. "That's why we were laughing. I wouldn't have told you to leave‒hell, I missed you visiting me. Anderson was like a poorly trained ape."

At this, Sherlock smiled, his cheeks flushed and his eyes red. He laughed.

"Okay?" John said. "Your arm is bleeding. Hold still."

"You're good at this, John." Sherlock said quietly as John wiped the blood away from the cut on his arm. "You should be a doctor."

John laughed. "A doctor? C'mon, Sherlock. I'm just an orphan. Doctors have to go to school and be super smart and…go to Uni and stuff."

"You could do it!" Sherlock insisted as John stuck a plaster over the wound on his arm. "I know you could."

"Thanks, Sherlock. Maybe if by some miracle, like if the money fairy suddenly appears and grants me the quid I need to get into the right schools, I can be a doctor."

They were both quiet for a moment. John cleaned up and closed the first aid kit.

"I want to run away." Sherlock said.

"What?"

"I'm serious. I want to run away and never go back there. I'll live in the woods and build a boat from the trees and sail down the river and never come back."

John grinned. "Like in _Treasure Island_?"

"Yeah." Sherlock sniffled. "I'm doing it, John. I'm going to take Galileo and go. Come with me."

John paused.

"Please, John? I'll need a first mate when I'm sailing the seas."

Still John hesitated, watching Sherlock gesture with his hands, a new light in his eyes as he spoke.

"Come on‒I'd be lost without my stable hand."

"Well, how can I say no to that?"

In theory, it worked perfectly. They would leave that night and go to the woods behind the house. There, they would build a boat and sail it down the river until they got to the ocean. Galileo would be set free and make it back to the stable and John and Sherlock would live happily ever after as pirates. In theory.

They set off that night as planned. Sherlock filled a bag with some of his and John's clothes. They brought some food and a toy telescope 'for navigating' and galloped away on Galileo at ten o'clock.

At eleven, Mycroft asked Sherringford why Sherlock wasn't in his room. By midnight, Alistair, Mycroft, both of Sherlock's parents, Marla, and the same neighbors that had searched for Bellisima were combing the area for any sign of the boys.

"Sherlock was at dinner," Sherringford consoled his crying wife, "he hasn't been gone long."

"Are you sure he's not just in the house somewhere?" Charlotte sobbed. "You know how he goes off…"

"We looked. He's not in the house. If Mycroft said he's not, then he's not inside."

"Aye," Alistair said, "I saw Johnny around nine, no doubt the two scamps are together somewhere." He forced himself to keep a light tone. "They're probably just off somewhere collecting data for‒you know Sherlock likes his experiments." This seemed to calm Charlotte.

"I swear, Alistair," Sherringford told the horse handler when they were alone, "when we find them, I give you my express permission to take a switch to their backsides."

Alistair smirked.

"I mean it." Sherringford said. "I'm easy with Sherlock because he has such trouble in school, but this is too far. Half the bleeding town is out here looking!"

One am came and went, as did two am. Finally, at three, an exhausted and irritated Mycroft found them sleeping deep in the woods where the taller, older pine trees grew. Actually, it wasn't even him who found them, but Bellisima, who sniffed out Galileo and decided to say hello.

Sherringford let out a gusty sigh of relief as Mycroft and the boys appeared in the floodlight cast by a lamp outside the stable, and Charlotte ran over to them, tugging Sherlock off the horse and into her arms and kissing him all over. "My baby! We were so worried!"

"Sorry, mum." Sherlock mumbled. John took Galileo's reins and lead him into the stable, allowing the family their moment. He caught Alistair's eye though, and wished he hadn't. The older man followed him towards the stable.

"Are you both okay?" He called.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Because you two are gettin' punished big for this‒prepare yourself, lad."

John nodded, feeling like he was going to be sick all over the ground. He untacked Galileo and put him away, then came back outside. Alistair and Sherringford were waiting, with Sherlock standing nearby, his head hanging in shame.

John hung his head too, unable to look either man in the eye. He clasped his hands and fidgeted, kicking up little tufts of dirt with his filthy shoes. It was stupid, what they had done. He'd gotten caught up in Sherlock's ideas of adventure, but crashing back to reality was shameful.

"Are you boys alright?" Mr. Holmes asked.

"Yes, father." Sherlock answered.

"Good. Do you have any idea how worried we were? How many people we sent out looking for you?"

John winced, his voice gone.

"Sorry, father." Sherlock's voice was regretful and Mr. Holmes sighed. "John." He said.

The older boy looked up.

"Was this your idea?"

"Um," it had totally been Sherlock's, "well, I‒"

"It was mine." Sherlock said.

"But I went along with it."

"Don't be stupid. You couldn't have said no if you wanted to."

"Don't call me stupid!"

"Hush." Sherringford commanded. Both boys went quiet.

"Now I have a meeting early tomorrow." He said. "And this is not how I wanted to spend the night before. I'm glad you're both alright, though you will need to be punished for this."

John nodded. Sherlock looked aghast. "Father?"

Mr. Holmes gave Alistair a little nod and strode away.

"Alright, you two miscreants, with me." Alistair took them each by the bicep and trundled them off towards the foaling barn. "You scheme together, run off together, get lost together, I think you can be punished together."

He let go of their arms and pulled open the empty barn door. "John," he pulled a pocket knife from his jeans and handed it over. "Go cut a switch off the apple tree."

Sherlock looked up at this, startled, as John nodded and dutifully went off to the nearby tree to cut a branch. A switching, _shit_. Alistair went straight for the kill. John had been smacked a few times at the home, but it had always been light with either a hand or a slipper. In the spotty years of schooling he'd had, he'd twice gotten the cane for fighting and that was more than enough, thanks. He suspected the switching would feel something like that and he felt ill at the thought. He pulled down a low branch. No good. It bounced back up and John walked around the tree, fiddling with the blade in his clammy hand.

Sherlock watched John circle the tree and a growling tarry pit of rubbish was growing in his belly. He'd never been switched before. He'd felt pain‒getting punched at school, a few scrapes from riding, but his parents had never laid a hand on him or Mycroft in punishment. He glanced over at Alistair, who was leaning against the barn, one foot flat on the wall, hands in pockets. He wasn't saying a word. Sherlock took a deep breath and rubbed his hand through his hair.

John found a good branch‒a couple feet long, green and flexible‒and sliced it off. He made a face at it and then brought it back to Alistair. He took it, running his thumb over the rough parts, then held his hand out. John placed the knife in it. Alistair trimmed the knobs and peeling bits, then watched the boys. John was standing tall and stoic, waiting for orders, while Sherlock fidgeted, looking longingly at the house across the property.

"All right, you two. G'on in."

John entered the barn first. It smelled of old hay and leather. Sherlock peered around, looking like he expected something to jump out of the shadows and bite him.

"Tell me why we're in here." Alistair said, folding his arms across his chest.

"Because Sherlock and I ran away and no one knew where we were."

"Damn right!" He hissed. "Did you have any idea how worried we were?! Sherlock's family was frantic. You both could have been dead on the side of the road somewhere for all we knew! Half the neighborhood was out there looking for you two."

"I'm sorry." John said.

Alistair turned to the other boy. "D'you have anything to say for yourself?"

"It was a bad idea." Sherlock said. "And I'm sorry too."

Alistair sighed. "Who first?" He glanced between them. "Sherlock?" He thought it might be easier for him to go first, get it over with. He'd had a softer upbringing than John. Alistair had no doubt John could take a switching. Sherlock though…the kid was nervous, and Alistair sympathized.

The younger boy shook his head quickly.

"Fine. John? Lower your trousers and pants and bend over the bales."

John nodded and went over to the stacked hay bales. He unfastened his jeans and lowered everything to his knees, then he stretched forward and rested his forearms on the scratchy hay, cupping the edge and staring down at the bale.

"Bare?" Sherlock yelped. "You'll cut him!"

"Sherlock, hush!" Alistair snapped. "Turn around and face the wall."

John presumed he did, because he heard Alistair approach from behind and seconds later, a warm hand laid over his shoulder and squeezed, giving him a reassuring pat before disappearing. John clenched his teeth and winced when the first _snap_ skimmed across both cheeks. It was clear that Alistair meant business, because half a dozen in, he showed no signs of stopping. By number seven, John's eyes were watering. Number eight sliced over a few marks already there and John arched up, startled, breaking position. He got back down though after a moment, crying quietly.

"Good lad." Alistair said in a gruff voice. He continued. John's arse was blazing from top to bottom and he knew that doing chores tomorrow was going to be a bitch. Two final licks, one good hard one on each cheek completed the twelve and Alistair's hand was on his shoulder again.

"Good job, John." He muttered. "That was tough, I know. But I'm proud of you, son."

John sniffed a few more times, soothed somewhat by Alistair's words.

"C'mon up now. Worst is over."

John peeled his arms off the hay and stood upright, taking a few moments to wipe his eyes. When they were as dry as he could manage, he bent and pulled up his clothes, easing them gently over his heated bottom. He fastened them and flinched. All the heat was trapped there now, compounding the pain.

He turned and gingerly crept over to the wall where Sherlock was standing, watching him over his shoulder with wide eyes.

"Sherlock." Alistair called.

John was breathing slowly through his mouth, closing his eyes as the heat on his butt momentarily grew.

"Sherlock." Alistair called again. More forcefully this time.

He turned and approached Alistair, white as a ghost. He knew he could refuse and Alistair would have to relent. Sherlock wasn't his charge the way John was, and if he cried and begged his father enough, Sherringford wouldn't make him take it. Sherlock didn't do this though. John had already accepted Sherlock's mistake for the open gate, and he wasn't going to make John endure another punishment that he had had earned.

"Lower your trousers and over the bale, young sir." He almost expected him to flee and was pleasantly surprised when Sherlock seemed to collect himself and obey, unzipping and pushing down just like John had. He bent over and folded his arms around his head, dark curls poking up between his fingers.

Alistair patted his shoulder as well, though offered a little more encouragement. "You'll do fine, lad." This only seemed to make Sherlock tighten his hold on his head.

Alistair lay down the first _snap_ and Sherlock startled. This really hurt! After the third one he was crying and by number five he was writhing over the bales.

"Hold _still_ , Sherlock."

"It hurts, Al!" Sherlock squeaked.

"I know, lad. That's the point."

John listened to his friend get whipped‒being in pain and hearing Sherlock's squalling made for a miserable experience and John vowed to think twice before letting Sherlock convince him to do something so irresponsible again.

By the end of the dozen Sherlock was crying hard into his arms.

"It's okay." Alistair soothed. "It's alright now‒it's all over. Breathe." He commanded. "Take a breath, in and out."

Sherlock rose on shaky legs, eventually, and wiped furiously at his face. "I'm proud of you, Sherlock. That was rough and you were very brave."

Sherlock tugged his clothes up and buttoned them, fresh tears springing to his eyes.

"Go on to the house, now."

They both left the barn on slow feet.

"Oh, Johnny?"

John stopped and turned a tear stained face back to Alistair.

"You can start later tomorrow."

"Thank you, Al." John mumbled, his voice hoarse.

The boys crept slowly across the yard in silence until they got to the stable.

"Well, 'night, Sherlock. See you tomorrow, I guess."

"No. "Sherlock growled.

"What?" John was hurt. Was Sherlock so upset about the switching that he was blaming him?

"You're not sleeping in the stable tonight. Come to my room."

"Overnight?"

"Obviously."

"But‒" John blinked. Sleep in the house? Was that allowed?

"No buts. I have a king. Come with me." Sherlock grabbed John's hand and towed him along at a pace that was faster than John's backside preferred. And what did Sherlock mean by having 'a king'? Was there royalty visiting?

Confused but willing, John followed Sherlock up the back steps. "Wait!" John pulled back. "Am I allowed?"

"Of course." Sherlock said, looking at John like he was a very stupid person. "You're with me. Come."

Even still, John held his breath as they went inside, expecting a horde of servants to swarm them and carry John away the second he stepped past the threshold.  But Sherlock was right. No one stopped their path. No one appeared out of the opulent rooms to yell. They were left completely alone. John craned his neck, taking in the paintings and plush carpet and velvet drapes and many doors that probably lead to rooms just as fanciful. He'd been in the house the one time, but never this far in. He didn't think he'd ever get enough of the place. They went past a black statue of a lion and John felt like he had stepped into Narnia. It was more wealth than he had ever seen.

Sherlock turned and dragged John almost aggressively up a flight of marble stairs to a room and through a wooden door that opened into a huge bedroom. Sherlock let go of John's sleeve and closed the door behind. John stood there, mouth agape, marveling at the amount of books on the shelves.  Pieces of a clock were dismantled on the floor near a pile of Sherlock's school books and bag and there was a real-life skeleton hanging near the window. Something that looked disturbingly like a brain was suspended in some green fluid and various posters depicting human and animal anatomy were pinned to the walls. There was a microscope on a table near one window, surrounded by slides and beakers and a big round magnifying glass. The huge dark windows were covered by a gauzy curtain and a lush, sumptuous bed stood against one papered wall.

"Wow." John breathed. "Is this the king's room?"

"What? What king? This is my bedroom." He wiped his nose and  John blinked. Sherlock's room? This whole space was _his?_

"Uh…" John said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Take a shower. You smell." Sherlock moved to a dresser and pulled out some clothes.

"Hey‒so do you!" John smiled for the first time that night and Sherlock smirked, handing John the spare clothing. John noticed then the tear tracks on his friend's face and his red eyes.

"Are you okay?" John asked.

"Fine." Sherlock sniffed. "Now go." He turned away. "Bathroom's that way." He pointed vaguely behind him and John went into the en suite bathroom. A warm shower felt good after the brief sleep outside in the cool night. He even treated himself by turning the spray to cold and washing it over his sore bum. He came out wearing silky PJ bottoms and a shirt. They were a little long and a hair too tight, as Sherlock was taller and lankier than he was. Sherlock was laying on his stomach on the bed, reading. John came over and crawled up onto the blankets. He almost gasped. It was so soft!

"Let me see." Sherlock said. He rolled onto his side.

"See what?"

"Your marks. I want to see if they look like mine."

John lowered his bottoms. "Yup." Sherlock said, eying the red lines. "Same as mine."

"Alistair is very fair."

Sherlock snorted, "if by fair you mean 'is an effective whipper' than yes, he's fair. I'm going to bathe." He rolled off the bed, wincing, and disappeared in the loo. John glanced around the room and slid off the bed, biting his lip as the welts on his bum flared up in pain. Sherlock's room was too fascinating to ignore and he was hardly tired. There were the books, tons of hardcover volumes and paperbacks, all stacked and crammed onto the wooden shelves. A few taxidermied animals and a board of pinned bugs. A tank of live frogs. The violin. The microscope he had seen from the door. John paused. He'd heard Sherlock talk about the microscope. How he could see things that were tiny. Too curious, John went over to it and knelt up on the chair. He flipped the switch and peered into the lenses. A crystal-clear riot of orange and black and white made the breath catch in John's throat. A butterfly's wing. It was stunning. Thousands of little gold and ruby fish scales next to a river of creamy white and grey. Never had John seen anything like it.

"A Skipper." Sherlock's voice said beside him. " _Thymelicus lineola."_ John startled and pulled away. "S-sorry, Sherlock. I was just looking…"

He didn't need to apologize though. Sherlock looked shy and even slightly proud that John had taken the initiative to look at it. "I found it near the river." Sherlock spoke at length about the different things he looked at through the lens until John yawned.

"Come on." Sherlock said. "I'm tired."

John followed him to bed where he threw off the covers. They both slipped between the soft sheets‒there would have been enough room for five of him in this bed, honestly‒and John wondered if he had ever slept in a place so wealthy and majestic. He didn't think so.

"Good night, Sherlock." He whispered, in awe of his surroundings.

"Sleep well, John."

* * *

 

"John!" Sherlock was shaking him awake.

"What?" John tried to sit up, then winced and shifted over to his side. "What's going on?" He looked at the clock. It was nearly noon. "Is Al looking for me? He said I could be late…"

"No, not Alistair. My father."

John took a moment to process this. "Your father? Wh-why does he want to see me?"

Sherlock shrugged. "He wants to see both of us."

"Oh." If Sherlock was there, it would be better. John had no idea how to act in this place. "Will he be upset?"

"He may lecture, but he won't switch us." Sherlock grinned and rubbed his arse. "Put this on." Sherlock threw a green dressing gown of fine silk at John and both boys padded through the big house to a closed door. Sherlock knocked.

"Enter."

They did and John gulped. Mr. Holmes was seated at a huge dark wooden desk, writing something with a fountain pen, looking somehow even more imposing than he had that first night John had seen him, and he was very aware that the last time he had spoke to Mr. Holmes was when he was defending himself on a crime he hadn't committed. Not the world's best first impression.

"Father." Sherlock said.

"Hello boys." Mr. Holmes rose and came around the desk, propping his backside up on the edge and looking down at them. Sherlock stood straight and quiet and John followed suit.

"John, I trust Sherlock was a good host last night?"

"Oh, yes sir. It was very kind of him to let me sleep in his room."

"Hm. I take it Alistair dealt with you both?"

"Yes, father." Sherlock said.

"Are you very sore?" There was a hint of humor in his voice.

"Yes." Sherlock growled.

"Johnny?"

"Actions have consequences, sir. I'm sore but I earned it."

"Good attitude." Sherringford nodded in approval and then held his arm out to Sherlock. The younger boy came to him and allowed himself to be hugged. "If something had happened to you…" Sherringford kissed the top of his son's head. "Never again." He squeezed the boy. "Understand? Do something this insane again and you can say good-bye to that microscope."

"Mycroft would get me another one if I cried enough." Sherlock sounded smug.

The older man grinned. "Yes he would." He sighed and released his son, then went back around his desk to sit.

"Are we dismissed, father?"

"Go." He waved towards the door. Both boys turned to leave. "John, stay back for a moment."

Sherlock frowned at John curiously but left, closing the door behind. John crept back to the desk and waited quietly as Mr. Holmes finished writing whatever he was writing.

A few moments passed.

"Um, sir?" John said. "Um, Alistair might be wondering where I am…"

He smiled gently. "Alistair knows you're with me." He never stopped writing.

"Oh." John relaxed a little bit. "Okay."

He put down his pen and stood, moving to a brown leather sofa in front of a dark granite fireplace. He beckoned John to follow.

"Am I in trouble?" John asked.

"Not at all. Should you be?" He sat down. "I would imagine you boys couldn't get up to much mischief in the house in a few hours, though with Sherlock, you never know."

"No, sir." John said.

"John…" Mr. Holmes paused. "Sherlock started school again, at Saint Gabriel's and he's, well…" He stopped, then changed tactics. "You boys are good friends, right?"

"Yes, sir. I've never had a friend as good as Sherlock."

"Good." His smile was genuine and relieved. "Good. Do you miss him while he's at school during the day?"

"Yes. I mean, my work keeps me busy, but we would have lunch together or sometimes he'd come down and we'd go riding." John smiled fondly. "I miss that."

Mr. Holmes licked his lips. "Would you like to go to school with him, John?"

John's jaw fell. School? Real school? With teachers and books and stuff? He blinked a few times. "I, Mr. Holmes, I…"

The older man was amused.

"I‒yes!" John grinned. "I'd love to! But, what about Alistair?"

He smiled. "We can make do."

"Oh sir…I," John looked down and shuffled his bare feet on the wooden floor as reality caught up to him. Sherlock was really smart and John wasn't sure if he could actually keep up with the lessons. He imagined himself wearing a uniform, the blue and white striped tie, the navy blazer and trousers and shoes, like his friend's and he blinked. Whoa‒ _him_ in a public school? That cost money. A lot of money. Who would want to pay for him with the basic bare-bones home education he'd had? "I fear I'd fail, sir."

"Nonsense. You're a bright boy, John. By what Sherlock says, anyway. I have no doubt that you could keep up with the curriculum."

"I," John swallowed, touched that Sherlock had said he was smart. "When would I start?"

"You would take some entrance tests this week and then start the next. It's still early in the year."

"That soon!?"

"Of course."

"I can't wait, sir."

"Me neither." Mister Holmes stood and escorted John to the door. Sherlock was sulking in the hallway. "I'll let you know more later, John. You'd better get to Alistair once you change." He closed the door.

"What was that?!" Sherlock demanded. "What did he say?"

John smiled. "I'm going to school with you, Sherlock."

"What?" He looked utterly surprised.

"Yeah, in two weeks! Your dad just asked me if I wanted to go to your school with you and I said yes…"

Sherlock didn't say anything and John's glee faded.

"Do you want me to?"

In response, Sherlock pulled him into a rough, tight hug, squeezing him before releasing quickly.

"Come on." Sherlock said in an airy tone, striding towards his room. "You need to get back to work."

If John noticed the fresh sheen of tears in Sherlock's eyes, he didn't say anything.

****


	7. Chapter 7

"Alistair!" John hollered, running into the stable. His bum burned and he hissed, slowing his pace to a walk.

"Whoa, easy, lad‒what's all the fuss?" Alistair was finishing John's abandoned polishing and he wiped his hands on a towel.

"I'm going to school!"

Alistair grinned. "Are you, now?"

"Mr. Holmes asked me this morning and I said yes of course and I‒wait a second, did you know?"

Alistair was still smiling. "I may have known a thing or two about it…"

John was still smiling stupidly and Sherlock trotted up behind him. "Sherlock's going to help with my work today and then he's going to help me study for my entrance exams." John said.

"Sherlock's a good friend." Al said.

"Yeah, he is."

Sherlock beamed.

* * *

 

The chores were finished in record time and Sherlock hauled John back to his bedroom.

"I remember the entrance exam. It's easy." Sherlock pulled a few textbooks off his shelf and threw them on the bed. "Maths, English, reading comprehension, science‒you'll do fine." More books followed.

John pursed his lips. It didn't sound easy.

"Get that look off your face." Sherlock said. John frowned. Sherlock wasn't even facing him. "You _will_ do well on this exam." Sherlock came to the table with four textbooks. "Read these. I've bookmarked which pages you'll need to know."

John grabbed the first one, _An Introduction to Biology_ , and opened to the first marked page. There was a detailed illustration of a cell with all the parts labeled. John remembered going over something like this in a class he took a few years ago. He turned to another page. The digestive system and the brain. Hm, maybe this wouldn't be so bad…

Sherlock coached him for the rest of the weekend. John's exam was set for Tuesday afternoon and he was very nervous.

"Don't worry," Sherlock told him the morning of the exam over breakfast. "We went through it all fast, but you're not supposed to really study for these kinds of tests anyway."

"What do you mean?" John put his cereal spoon down. "There's kinds of tests that you don't study for?" John had never heard of such a thing.

"They're designed to gauge what you already know. General knowledge. Basic stuff. You know about politics already, right?"

"Yeah." He'd learned some stuff at the courses in the communal home, but Sherlock's speed-teaching had filled in some gaps.

"You'll do fine." Sherlock slid off his chair, wincing slightly. "Good luck." He left to catch the school bus and John finished his food, feeling queasy. The test wasn't until after lunchtime, so he still had time to review a few things. He got up and reached for his empty bowl, bringing to the sink to wash. A servant appeared out of the wings and took it respectfully from him. He kept forgetting that there were servants here to specifically do these tasks for him. He was so used to cleaning up after himself and other people and doing his own washing at the home. Yet another difference between Sherlock's world and his.

The family driver brought him to Saint Gabriel's at one thirty. There was a lunch break going on, and boys in various navy and white uniforms milled about in a fenced in common area. John hoped he'd get a glimpse of Sherlock, but no. The interior of the school was neat and clean and John walked past a few paintings of former heads of school and into the main reception office. A nice woman in a green dress greeted him at the front desk, and then another office worker took him to a conference room and placed the test face-down in front of him, along with two pens and two pencils.

"Would you like some water?" She asked.

John nodded stiffly. She left, then returned with a bottle of water.

"Good luck, John. Someone will be back here in an hour. You may begin."

She left and John flipped over the paper. Taking a deep breath, he read the first question.

* * *

 

Sherlock got off at three, so John and the driver waited in the car park until he was finished.

"So?" Sherlock asked, opening the back door. "How did you do?" He threw his bag in and sat beside his friend. The car roared off.

"I don't know." John said miserably, thinking of all the question he might have missed. "They're going to mail the results this week."

"You did fine."

"I forgot what onomatopoeia meant." John moaned.

"That's okay. Half the kids in my English class don't even know what a noun is. You passed."

John wished he felt so confident.

Thus began the longest days of John's life. He didn’t expect anything the next day, or the next. Or Friday. The weekend was hell, especially Sunday since he knew for sure he wasn't going to find out until at least Monday. When Alistair walked into the stable and handed him a big envelope the next Tuesday afternoon, John's heart nearly stopped. He was starting to wonder if the whole thing hadn’t been a particularly lucid dream.

"Oh God." He whispered. The school's name was in the return address.

"Are you gonna open it or stare at it?" Alistair asked.

"I think I'll wait for Sherlock to come home." In truth, John thought he would vomit no matter what the results were, and he had just swept this floor. And besides, Sherlock had helped him study, John felt he should be there to see the results. He didn’t have to wait long.

"Did it come!?" Sherlock ran into the stable, as he had been doing every day after school since John had taken the exam.

"Yeah." John breathed.

"And?!"

"I didn't open it yet."

"What are you waiting for, you idiot? Come on!"

They went up into the loft and Sherlock knelt up on the cot as John grabbed the envelope  in sweating hands. He wanted it, of course he did, but he almost wanted it for Sherlock's sake more. John knew that if he got in, Sherlock would never have a bad day again‒not if he could help it.

He tore at the flap with shaking fingers and extracted the typed letter inside.

"Dear Mr. Watson…we are happy to inform you that‒"

"‒Yes!" Sherlock leaped off the cot.

"I got in!" John threw the pages aside.

"You got in!" They spontaneously high-fived. Sherlock whooped and cheered and more or less hopped around the loft. John smiled and joined him. He got in! It was exactly what he wanted. School‒real school. He was happier than he remembered being in a long time, so why was there such a nagging pit of worry in his chest?

* * *

 

"We'll need to get a uniform for you, Johnny." Sherringford said over dinner that night. The family, John and Alistair were eating at the big oak table. John was totally stuffed from the celebratory dinner. He'd never had lobster before, and the chocolate cake had been amazing.

"He can share mine until he gets his own." Sherlock said.

"John's uniform will be different." Mycroft said. "He's a year above you."

Sherlock made a face at him.

"We still have time. Normally we would just order through the school, but since the year's already started, I can take you to the shop over the weekend, John." Sherringford said.

"What about books?" John asked, still worried about the expense.

"The school will provide those for you."

John worried for the rest of the week. Everyday Sherlock or his father would suggest something he might need for class, and the sheer amount of things was starting to sound dizzyingly expensive. The uniform, the supplies, the tuition, all the fees. He was going on Thursday to the GP for the required physical and injections. He got quieter and more worried the closer the first day came.

On Saturday morning, Sherringford and John were getting ready to go to the uniform shop.

"I'm coming too!" Sherlock declared.

"No. Stay home for this one, okay?" Sherringford said.

"Why?" Sherlock whined.

"Because I told you to."

John soon found himself alone in the silver Jaguar with Mr. Holmes. He fiddled nervously with his seat belt and stared out the window.

"Alright, John, what's on your mind?"

"Nothing, sir."

"None of that. Don't worry, son, whatever it is, you can tell me. Do you still want to go to Saint Gabriel's?"

Damn, he was perceptive. Cheekbones weren't the only thing Sherlock inherited.

"I do." John said. And he did.

"Okay. Are you nervous about your first day?"

"Ah…not too much, sir." Going to various jobs and being in and out of schools for most of his youth made him very good at meeting people and fitting in.

"So, what then? Truly, you can tell me anything, John. Is it something with Sherlock?"

"Oh no, sir. The truth is, I, well, I'm worried about the payments. It's a public school, and I…don’t have money."

"Oh John, don't worry at all about that." Sherringford sounded relieved.

"No? But, how am I going to be allowed there? What if I fail out?"

"You won't." He said firmly. "You won't fail out and you'll be paid in full. Charlotte and I are covering your tuition, son. I thought that was clear."

"Oh." Now John felt like the idiot Sherlock said he was.

"Okay?" Mr. Holmes said.

"Yes, sir." John felt much more relieved.

"Good. Any problems you have, John, any at all, you come to me or Charlotte, okay? We want you to succeed."

"Thank you, sir." John whispered. He leaned his head back on the seat. No one had ever spoken like this to him. It was nice. Really nice. It was like having a real family.

* * *

 

Monday morning found John and Sherlock waiting on the corner for the school bus. Sherlock was in his blazer and trousers with the striped tie. John was wearing a variation on that: grey trousers with a navy shirt. He didn't button the cuffs or his collar, instead choosing to keep the long sleeves rolled up loosely over his muscled forearms. A whole summer of farm labor had seriously bulked him up. The top button was undone as well, giving his appearance a more casual feel. His bag was slung over one shoulder, holding notebooks and pens and the like. John was excited and Sherlock was thrilled.

"We'll see each other at lunch." Sherlock said. "Our years eat together."

"Jim going to be there?"

"Unless he's absent." Sherlock said.

"Good." John cracked a knuckle.

The bus pulled up and both boys got on.

The first half of John's day went well enough. The kids weren't nearly as intimidating or scary as he feared. Spending a summer with Sherlock and seeing how he lived his daily life had prepared John for spending his time around a whole group of equally as wealthy students his own age. He made a few friends in his maths and English courses, his casual wearing of the uniform and quick grin attracting curious attention from classmates and unwanted attention from teachers. He sat between two boys in his English class, Mike Stamford and Greg Lestrade, who were  friendly and happy to invite John to sit with them and the rest of the rugby team at lunch. So far, the day was going well.

"John!" Greg was waving to him across the lunch area. John waved back, then held up his index finger, indicating that he wanted them to wait. He scanned the room and saw Sherlock in the corner, sitting at an end of a lunch table by himself.

"Hey." John dropped to the seat across from him. "How's your day going?"

"Fine." Sherlock said. "Yours?"

"Not bad. You want to come sit with me at my table?" John looked over at the new group and a few of the guys were eying him curiously. Sherlock stared at them, rather, he stared at their muscles and calculated how quickly they could snap his neck.

"They won't bug you. If they do, fuck 'em‒I'll sit here with you."

"Fine." Sherlock gathered his food and got up, following John to the new table. John was right at home, but Sherlock didn't exactly fit in with the brawny, loud group. Sure, they were nice enough to him since he was with John. Mike even shared his chips with him and by the end of the break, Sherlock was smiling, much to John's relief.

The rest of the day passed quickly and the last bell finally rang. John met up with Greg and Mike outside. "Who's that kid you were with at lunch?" Greg asked. "He your brother?"

"No. He's my friend. He sometimes has a rough time of school."

"Yeah, he's scrawny." Mike added.

John gave him a glare and Greg laughed in delight. "You need to join the team, the other guys are already debating about which position you're going to play."

John peered around, looking for Sherlock. He'd yet to see either Jim or Seb, which was good for their sakes. John looked through the milling crowd and spied a familiar dark curly head. Sherlock was backed in a corner, a dark haired boy and his larger, ginger crony looming over him. That must be Jim and Seb. John couldn't believe it‒Jim was in John's year! He wasn't even the same age as Sherlock. What a coward. John grinned. He couldn't wait to meet him. Mike and Greg saw where John was looking.

"We're behind you, mate."

Thrilled to have a posse of his own, John stormed through the crowd and landed one big hand on Jim's shoulder, just as he had his own fist raised to pummel a cowering Sherlock. John yanked him back, spinning him around.

"What the fuck?" Jim spat.

"Pick on someone your own size, James." John said. With that, he hauled off and punched him across the mouth, sending him sprawling. Seb yelled in protest and grabbed John by the lapels. "You're going to regret that, you bastard." Mike and Greg shoved Seb off of John, flexing their rugby-born muscled arms. Seb stepped back and sized them up. John was glaring up at him, and Mike and Greg were flanking him, hands in fists, ready to beat on Seb should he do something stupid. Scowling, he ran off, leaving Jim to fend for himself. A small crowd had formed, and a few more members of the rugby team slowly came forward, eager to back their mates up.

Jim got off the ground, his lip split. He took one look at John and his group and took off without a word. Satisfied, John helped Sherlock up from where he was sitting on the dirt. He dusted Sherlock's blazer. Mike picked up Sherlock's bag.

"Alright?" John asked, flicking dirt off his shoulder.

Sherlock grinned. "Yeah, I am."

"Good." John clapped him on the back. "I don't think Jim or Seb are going to be bothering you anymore."


	8. Chapter 8

The rest of the year continued in much of the same way. John joined the rugby team. Sherlock had not only one person to protect him from bullies, but an entire crew in the form of the team, who decided that Sherlock was "an alright bloke" and happily let him spend time with them‒he was even more welcome when he was able to help a few of the guys with homework and studying for their GCSEs. Sherlock would sit on the sidelines while the team practiced after classes, ignoring them all completely as he did his homework in the soft grass. The track and field coach approached him again during one of these practices, begging him to join the team. Sherlock couldn't really say no with all John's rugby mates encouraging him to join.

Sherlock and John came home from school together every day, smiling and laughing, and Sherringford and Charlotte couldn’t have been more relieved.

"Thank Christ." Sherringford said to his wife one cold December morning. "I don’t know what we would have done without John. Transferred Sherlock to another school again, I suppose." He watched fondly through the window as the boys tore across the frozen earth on Galileo and Bellisima.

"Their holidays are approaching." Charlotte said.

"God yeah. It is that time of year already." Sherringford sat at the table and glanced at the huge decorated Christmas tree in the front room.

"What should we get John?"

Mr. Holmes thought a moment, watching the boys gambol around outside. "What about a horse?" He suggested. "We already have two, and we have the space, what's one more?"

"That's a good idea." Charlotte sounded surprised.

"What? What were you thinking?"

Charlotte clasped her hand over her husband's on the table. "John's an orphan, dear. This coming June, he's going to be sent back to the home. His contract only lasts a year."

Sherringford pursed his lips.

"Do you want to have to tell Sherlock that one day soon? That we're going to have to ship his best friend‒his only friend‒back to the city to live in some horrible commune?"

Sherringford sipped his coffee. "No." He said. "So what then? Can we extend his contract?"

"I was thinking…" Charlotte leaned back in her chair. "More along the lines of adopting him."

Sherringford coughed on his coffee. Charlotte waited patiently for him to breath normally again.

"We always wanted three." She added.

"Adopting?! But‒ _adopting_!"

"Why not?"

"That's a big step." He countered.

"How so? He's been with us long enough," she ticked the point off on her finger, "he knows us and likes us," another point, "Sherlock adores him and never leaves his side," point, "we pay for his food, his lodging‒we converted one of the spares room for him ages ago as it is, he's doing well in school‒his GCSE scores were great." She glanced at the refrigerator where Sherringford had proudly hung them, much to John's mortification.

"You've thought a lot about this." Sherringford sipped his coffee.

Charlotte smiled indulgently. "We already have two, and we have the space, what's one more?"

Mr. Holmes laughed. "Fine. We'll adopt him. We won't be able to get him and get all the papers before Christmas though."

"True. His birthday is the eighth of May. We should be able to get everything settled by then. Assuming he wants to, that is."

"Perfect."

* * *

 

Christmas morning brought happy cries from Sherlock as he unwrapped a smaller, pocket-sized version of his magnifying glass, a new set of slides and a chemistry set.  John had gotten him a cast of a skull that looked eerily realistic. Sherlock loved it and in return had bought John a journal and nice pen with the simple explanation of 'you should write. You'd be good at it.' John was thrilled. He had given Mycroft a new umbrella as a sort of inside joke, 'to use on those sunny days'. For Sherringford and Charlotte he'd managed a bottle of whiskey and a cashmere shawl. They both fawned over the gifts as if the Queen herself had sent them.

"John, we have something for you too." Sherringford said, "but it's outside."

"What?" John was puzzled. He looked at Sherlock, who grinned.

"Don't tell him!" Charlotte commanded. John threw on his boots and ran out of the house. He saw nothing but cold, dead earth everywhere.

"In the stable." Sherringford said. The boys tore off across the hard ground. John skidded into the stable, a tiny part of him cynically expecting that it was a new shovel to do more work with. The real gift, however, was way better. A black and white painted horse stood in a previously unused stall. A huge red bow was taped to the door and the horse was attempting to chew on it.

John stood there, mouth agape in shock. A horse! A real horse of his own!

"Mr. Holmes…Mrs. Holmes…" John breathed as they entered the stable. "I can't‒this is too much."

"Nonsense. Merry Christmas, John." Charlotte kissed his forehead.

"Just don't use this one to run off into the woods again with Sherlock." Sherringford suggested.

"Haha." John laughed dryly and rubbed his bum at the memory.

"I'll still be able to outrace you." Sherlock said.

"No you won't!" John pulled open the stall door and the horse sniffed his hand. He couldn’t believe it. It was the best Christmas he'd ever had.

* * *

 

Winter melted into spring, and on a warm day in late April, John was laying on the cot in his old loft, staring at the spiders on the ceiling. He barely spent any time here anymore. He had his own room in the house now, right beside Sherlock's. He even had his very own king. He'd been so lucky these past ten months. He met his best friend, he went to school and got good grades and met a bunch of nice people. His teachers liked him. He was happy. He couldn't believe his good luck in that Steve had found that job for him and that he'd agreed to go despite having no farm experience. He couldn't imagine where he'd be now if he'd said no. The Holmes' were the best family he could be working for. It was perfect.

Something ugly that he'd been staunchly ignoring shifted in his stomach. 'Working' was the key word here. They had hired him to do a job, one that he wasn't even doing anymore. Sure, he would pop down on weekends to help Alistair, but John's old job was taken. Alistair's younger sister was in for the summer and would be helping him out instead, living out of a flat in the nearby town. John's contract was going to expire soon, so what did it all matter? So he'd had a frankly brilliant time here. He knew it would all end, right? That he would have to get on the train and go back to the home. Back to regular meetings with Steve and working odd jobs around the country. Back to the dreary grey walls and sticky floor boards.

He got up and descended down into the stable. Galileo and Bellisima and Tucker were in the field, nibbling at new shoots of grass. He smiled as he walked past. They had given him a _horse_ for fuck's sake. No job or family would ever compare to that. He'd have to leave Tucker behind. Leave Sherlock behind. He was annoyed to find tears in his eyes and he scrubbed them away angrily. He knew this was coming. He hadn't been fair to himself to get attached like he had. He went into the kitchen, no longer noticing its opulence, and saw Mr. Holmes reading the paper at the table.

"Hey, John."

"Mr. Holmes." He said gruffly. He hadn't hidden his tears well enough.

"What's this?" He put the paper down and beckoned John over. He reluctantly came and sat.

"Nothing, sir. Just….thinking."

"That can be dangerous."

Silence.

"Thinking about what?" He pressed gently.

"Things. This summer."

"Ah." Sherringford nodded knowingly, then thought of the parcel of papers he and Charlotte had in their bedroom, the ones that stated legally that Sherringford and Charlotte could become guardians of John H. Watson. They just required a few signatures and a deposit of money.

They wanted to save it for his birthday, but John looked so unhappy now. Sherringford didn't want John worrying about something that was supposed to turn into happy news.

"John." He said gently. "Come with me."

John followed Mr. Holmes up to the master bedroom. He lingered in the doorway when Sherringford entered and watched him open a drawer and retrieve a folder jammed full of papers.

"Come on."He beckoned John in and he crept across the soft carpet. Sherringford pointed at the bed. John sat and Mr. Holmes sat beside him. "Now, Charlotte and I wanted to wait until your birthday."

A sort of deep excitement started stirring in John's belly. If this was going where he thought it was…

"But I think we can tell you now." He handed the folder over and John opened it up. He saw the word 'adoption' at the top of the page and froze, struck stupid as the stirring excitement leaped to life and made the whole world go fuzzy for a moment.

"John?"

He shook himself and took a deep breath."Yes…" he whispered.

"It's all here." Sherringford explained patiently. "The legal stuff has all gone through. The only thing left would be for the three of us to sign here," he flipped to an official-looking page with four empty lines at the bottom. "Steve would need to sign on behalf of your home, but that's an easy train ride. What do you think John?"

He didn't, couldn't answer.

"This is a huge decision, I know. Nothing is permanent yet." Sherringford backpedalled, unsure of how to take John's silence. "All of this can be rescinded and forgotten if you want. It's completely up to you, but Charlotte and I would love to have you. I'm pretty sure Mycroft and Sherlock wouldn't mind either."

"What would my name be?" John asked. His voice was a weird croak.

"Your name? John Hamish Watson-Holmes."

John liked the sound of that. He liked it a lot.

* * *

 

"Sherlock, sit still!" Charlotte scolded. Her youngest was bouncing around the train carriage like Tigger.

Sherlock flopped into the seat beside John.

"What's Steve like?" He asked his soon-to-be new brother.

"Deduce him when we get there." John said.

Sherlock's eyes gleamed at the challenge.

"Don't encourage him, John."

The train pulled in and they caught  a cab to John's home. A few months ago, John might have been nervous about the Holmes' seeing his communal home. Not now. They knew exactly where he had come from and they had wanted to accept him into their hearts and home anyway. He had nothing to be ashamed of.

One of the matrons greeted them at the door. Sherlock was peering around, taking in every detail, gleaning more about John's old life. They were escorted to Steve's office and all invited to sit on rickety folding chairs. The dangling kitten poster was still tacked to the wall and John had to suppress a hysterical urge to laugh.

"Everything looks good on my end…" Steve's fingers glided over the key board on his big boxy grey computer as he spoke. "Do you have the form?" He looked at the Holmes' politely.

Sherlock produced it and Steve signed off. "Alright, that's me done." He handed over the pen. Sherringford Holmes signed it. Charlotte Holmes signed in her neat script. Sherlock jumped around the room behind them in excitement, making the floor creak and the horrible posters jiggle. She passed the pen over to John and he signed his new name for the first time: John Hamish Watson-Holmes. He smiled. He could get _definitely_ get used to that.


	9. Epilogue

  **Epilogue. Present day.  
**

"Sherlock!" John watched in utter absolute horror as the tall lanky idiot‒his friend, his _brother_ ‒ held the little white pill up to the light, his eyes fixed to it. The cabbie watched in a kind of sick, transfixed delight. There was no way John would be able to get there fast enough to knock the pill out of his hand. "Don't do it, don't do it…" He hefted the gun in his hand and flipped the safety off. Sherlock lowered the pill towards his mouth. "Don't‒ _don't_!"

John raised the gun. He fired. The cabbie went down and John took off. He only had a few minutes to dump the weapon and avoid the police. It was only Greg, but still.

"You _are_ an idiot." John hissed as he stomped into 221B forty-five minutes later. He dropped the bag of Chinese on the table.

"Why?" Sherlock groused, following. He put another bag beside John's. "I caught him...rather, you shot him‒he's dead. No else will die. What's the problem?"

John shook his head. "Were you always this thick-skulled?"

"I'm not thick-skulled, I'm tenacious." Sherlock sniffed. "And I've _always_ been stubborn, John. That is nothing new."

"No, you're right." John pulled a few cartons out of the bag. "You have always been a stubborn git."

"Like when I made you cram that whole weekend for the entrance test to Saint Gabriel's." Sherlock said airily.

"God yeah. Still don't remember what onomatopoeia means."

Sherlock smiled. They loaded up their plates and went into the sitting room. Both flopped down on the sofa. Sherlock put the bottle of soy sauce on the table, John set down a beer for himself and water for Sherlock. They tucked in to the food, not speaking for a few more minutes.

"I left the gate open." Sherlock said. For a few moments, John was mystified and thought Sherlock was still speaking about the case.

"What?" He popped an egg noodle in his mouth.

"Remember? When we were kids? Alistair blamed you for leaving the gate open after Mycroft's horse ran away?"

It all came flooding back to John, the sick horse, the latch that may or may not have caught, stumbling around in the woods half the morning trying to find the mare.

"You motherfucker." John stabbed at his rice. "‒I _knew_ I locked that damn gate."

Sherlock laughed and John put his fork down with a clatter.

"That's why you brought me food those nights‒in the _rain._ You were guilty! I thought you were just being thoughtful."

"Me? Thoughtful? That would be a disgusting display of sentiment, John."

"Yeah, yeah‒you're Mr. Icecold with a gooey soft center."

Sherlock was quiet. "Is Mr. Icecold an X-man?"

"Nevermind." John shook his head.

"I have another confession, too, John."

"Oh God."

"Remember the night you and Anderson were accused of stealing those silver candlesticks?"

"Vividly. I was terrified of Sherringford, on that night anyway. I thought for sure he'd dismiss me. Or hit me."

Sherlock grinned and scooped some chow mein onto his fork. "I planted those candlesticks in your loft," John's eyes bugged out. "I wanted Anderson out."

"That's evil. That's devious and horrible, Sherlock."

They both laughed, hard.

"He was rude to me." Sherlock shrugged and popped the chow mein in his mouth. "I was a little brat and I was pants at fighting, so I‒"

"‒you took the devious route instead and lied and planted false evidence. God. I'm glad I got on your good side early."

Sherlock sobered. "Me too."

John gave him a companionable pat on the knee and they finished their food in the comfortable quiet of 221B, forever partners, friends, and brothers.

 

The End.

* * *

_**Thank you for reading! Comments/critiques are welcome.** _

 


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